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Onit3et0itp  of  Botth 


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■LJP^OTTTpSe-B.  (;^     ^ 

Storifts-ofHrKe.  Che-rokre. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2010  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/storiesofcherokeOOthom 


•33oofes  bp  iJlauricc  Cbampson. 


POEMS.     Crown  8vo,  J  I.  so. 

A  TALLAHASSEE   GIRL.     A  Novel.     i6mo, 

Ji.oo  ;  paper,  50  cents. 
STORIES    OF    THE    CHEROKEE     HILLS. 

Illustrated.     i2mo,  $1.50. 

HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   &   CO. 
Boston  and  New  York. 


'JUDAS!    YOU    OLD   COON  !"  —  "  MARS   BEN  !"  (Page  72) 


STORIES  OF 
THE  CHEROKEE  HILLS 


BY 


MAURICE   THOMPSON 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    189S,   BY  MAURICE  THOMPSON 
ALL  RIGHTS  RHSERVED 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Color-Line  Jocundities i 

Ben  and  Judas 34 

Hodson's  Hide-Out 78 

Rudgis  and  Grim 115 

A  Race  Romance 139 

A  Dusky  Genius 169 

The  Balance  of  Power 216 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

"  Judas  !    you    old    coon  ! "  —  "  Mars     Ben  !  " 
(Page  72) Frontispiece 

Side    by    side    on    the    sandy    bank    of    the 

STREAM 48 

"W-w-w'at  Dave  is  yer  tarkin'  'bout?"      .      102 

Grim 116 

He  filled  his  pipe,  and  lighted  it       .        .134 

"Call  me  Mr.  Marting" 160 

He  watched  this  strange  procession  .        .      166 
Judge  Dillard 178 


STORIES   OF  THE   CHEROKEE 
HILLS 


COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES 

History  is  the  record  of  closed  periods, 
the  presentation  of  what  mankind  has  lost 
and  gained  in  the  course  of  progress. 
When  I  was  a  boy  Bud  Peevy  said  to  me : 
"  Ef  ye  'r'  a-hankerin'  ter  know  what  ye 
don't  want  ter  know,  jes'  ax  a  ole  man  what 
he  thinks  o'  a  young  un."  Bud  was,  him- 
self, neither  young  nor  old.  "  I  kin  look 
both  ways,"  he  often  remarked,  "an'  see 
back  inter  the  what  wus  an'  for'rd  inter  the 
goin'  ter  be.  They's  both  poorty  much 
erlike.  What  wus  did  n't  sat'sfy  nobody, 
an'  what 's  er  goin'  ter  be  '11  never  make  no 
livin'  soul  happy.  We  loses  an'  we  finds ; 
but  we  never  finds  ag'in  what  we  loses,  an' 


2  COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES 

we  never  has  a  dern  thing  wo'th  er  huntin' 
fer  when  we  've  lost  it."  I  am  neither  ac- 
cepting nor  rejecting  Bud  Peevy's  philo- 
sophy ;  what  I  feel  is  that  history  must  be 
valuable  in  proportion  to  the  accuracy  of 
its  details,  and  that  its  most  precious  de- 
tails are  those  incidents  of  human  life  that 
flicker  along  the  vanishing  line  by  which 
the  close  of  every  period  of  civilization  is 
momentarily  marked. 

Early  in  my  childhood  our  family  went 
to  live  on  a  lonely  estate  amid  the  moun- 
tains of  Cherokee  Georgia.  The  farmstead 
was  circled  around  by  foothills,  above  which 
in  all  directions  blue  peaks  kissed  the  rim 
of  a  heaven  that  looked  like  the  half  of  a 
pale  blue  bird-egg  shell  turned  hollow  side 
down.  All  of  our  neighbors  and  friends 
were  mountaineers,  and  I  grew  up  a  moun- 
taineer boy.  I  spoke  the  mountain  lingo, 
wore  the  mountain  garb,  conformed  to  all 
the  customs  and  manners  of  the  mountain 
folk  for  many  years,  and,  indeed,  was 
scarcely  less  than  to  the  manner  born. 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  3 

With  a  flint-lock,  "  whole-stock  "  rifle  I 
shot  in  competition  at  the  matches  for  beef 
and  turkey ;  I  danced  at  many  a  cabin  ball 
where  the  fiddler  played  "  Natchez  under 
the  Hill,"  "  Black-Eyed  Susan,"  "  Cotton- 
Eyed  Joe,"  and  "  Flat  Woods,"  and  where 
the  loose  board  floor  rattled  merrily  under 
our  jigging  feet.  I  went  to  singing-school 
and  to  class-meeting,  to  weddings  and  to 
funerals,  to  still-house  meets ;  I  went  coon- 
hunting  by  torchlight,  chestnut-hunting  on 
the  mountain  tops,  'possum-hunting  in  the 
bottom  lands,  and  was  always  present  at 
the  particular  justice  court  ground  where 
a  fight  was  expected.  Moreover  I  chewed 
"  mounting-twist  "  tobacco  and  smoked  the 
same,  until  I  became  aware  of  better  hab- 
its and  reformed. 

Certainly  in  those  wild,  free  days  I  did 
not  dream  of  "local  color"  or  of  literary 
materials.  It  was  a  mountaineer  who 
taught  me  the  use  of  the  longbow ;  but  I 
never  expected  to  use  it  in  history,  or  in 


4  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

fiction,  not  more  than  I  looked  forward 
to  the  influence  that  Theocritus  —  whose 
Idylls  were  even  then  being  drilled  into 
me  by  a  private  tutor  —  might  have  upon 
my  unthought-of  poetry.  Yet  it  must  be 
seen  that  my  life  was  flushing  itself,  flood- 
ing me,  with  the  elements  that  have  per- 
force entered  into  the  sketches  here  offered 
to  the  historian  of  American  civilization. 

When  the  great  war  came  on  I  went 
into  it,  hot-headed,  unthinking,  a  mere 
boy,  bubbling  over  with  enthusiasm  for 
the  South  and  its  cause.  Fortune  so  di- 
rected that  I  was  to  be  a  mountaineer  even 
in  military  life,  and  for  many  months  I 
served  as  a  scout  in  the  rugged,  billowy 
region  of  North  Georgia,  North  Alabama, 
and  East  Tennessee.  At  the  close  of  the 
war  I  went  back  to  our  home  in  the  hills, 
resuming  for  a  while  the  old  life ;  as  Bud 
Peevy  would  say :  "  A  livin'  'twixt  starva- 
tion an'  the  'tater  patch,"  with  a  book  in 
one  hand  and  a  hoe  in  the  other,  while  a 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  5 

vague  yet  irresistible  impulse  compelled 
me  to  seek  literary  expression.  Then  men 
and  women  began  to  be  objects  of  absorb- 
ing curiosity.  I  studied  them  with  hungry 
persistence,  but  found  myself  attempting 
to  describe  and  portray  only  the  men  and 
women  that  I  had  read  about ;  and  it  was 
not  until  after  I  had  gone  into  Indiana  and 
made  my  home  there  that  I  became  aware 
of  the  Southern  mountaineer  as  a  persist- 
ent and  insistent  supplicant  for  portraiture 
at  my  hands. 

Now,  albeit  the  war  was  ended,  politics 
had  taken  on  the  bitterness  engendered  by 
the  reconstruction  troubles,  and  when  these 
sketches  on  the  "  color-line,"  written  early 
in  the  seventies,  were  offered  to  editors 
they  were  promptly  rejected,  on  the  ground 
that  "fiction  in  any  way  connected  with 
the  recent  war  in  the  South  and  its  re- 
sults "  could  not  fail  to  '*  engender  ill  feel- 
ing and  do  injury  to  both  writer  and  pub- 
lisher."    So   my  stories   of   slavery,   war, 


6  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

emancipation,  and  reconstruction  in  the 
Southern  mountain  region  were  cast  aside 
and  lay  in  the  manuscript  for  years,  until 
at  last,  after  I  had  printed  other  stories, 
and  after  the  impression  of  the  great  war 
had  somewhat  softened,  I  offered  one  of 
them,  entirely  rewritten  and  very  much 
changed,  to  the  "Century  Magazine"  under 
the  title,  "  Hodson's  Hide-Out,"  and  it  was 
promptly  accepted  and  printed.  The  other 
stories  in  this  volume  followed,  all,  except 
"  The  Balance  of  Power,"  appearing  at  in- 
tervals in  the  "  Century  ;  "  the  last  named 
story  was  printed  in  "  Harper's  Magazine," 
and  to  the  editors  of  these  great  publica- 
tions I  am  indebted  for  the  privilege  of 
offering  this  book  to  the  world. 

The  reader  will  not  need  to  be  told  that 
these  bits  of  fiction  were  written  with  the 
purpose  to  fix  in  imperishable,  even  if 
crude,  form  the  curious  effects  wrought  by 
negro  slavery  upon  the  lives  of  the  illiter- 
ate, stubborn,  and  absolutely  independent 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  7 

dwellers  among  the  arid  and  almost  inac- 
cessible mountains  of  the  South.  I  knew 
my  people,  and  little  as  I  could  trust  my 
art,  I  could  not  doubt  the  accuracy  or  the 
value  of  that  knowledge,  no  matter  how 
imperfectly  it  might  be  set  in  literature. 

There  is  no  caricature  in  these  stories ; 
the  mist  of  fiction  and  the  sheen  of  imagi- 
nation have  not  distorted  the  main  facts  as 
I  saw  them  in  their  day.  Slavery  in  the 
mountains  was  very  little  like  slavery  in  the 
low  country,  and  the  reader  need  not  hesi- 
tate to  accept  as  true,  albeit  clothed  upon 
with  romance,  the  singular  features  most 
prominent  in  these  excerpts  from  a  life  not 
to  be  measured  by  the  standard  of  any 
other.  The  story  of  "  Ben  and  Judas  " 
represents  not  Middle  Georgia  proper,  but 
rather  the  hill  country  now  called  "  Pied- 
mont Georgia,"  where  it  borders  the  real 
mountain  region.  I  give  it  first  place  be- 
cause it  was  first  written  (although  "  Hod- 
son's   Hide-Out"  preceded  it  in  publica- 


8  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

tion,  as  I  have  said),  and  because  it  sounds 
the  key-note  of  my  purpose. 

The  mountaineers  proper  rarely  owned 
slaves ;  only  here  and  there  one  had  been 
willing  or  able  to  buy  a  black.  Of  course 
there  were  many  prosperous  farmers  in 
the  Cherokee  country,  many  wealthy  slave- 
owners ;  but  they  were  not  mountaineers. 
Indeed,  nearly  all  of  the  rich  "  river-bot- 
tom "  lands  and  most  of  the  fertile  valley 
plantations  were  the  property  of  aristo- 
cratic low-country  planters,  who  had  come 
into  the  hills  after  the  "  land-lottery  "  days. 
The  mountaineers  clung  to  the  "pockets" 
and  coves,  preferring  the  broken  country 
far  from  railroads  and  towns.  One  or  two 
negroes  could  be  found  on  some  of  the  for- 
lorn little  farms  where  accident  or  unusual 
thrift  had  favored  a  man  like  Rudgis,  and 
in  a  few  cases  a  master  like  Dillard  was  a 
fair  example  of  a  hybrid,  neither  a  moun- 
taineer nor  a  low-countryman. 

It  struck  me  that   the  attitude  of   the 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  9 

mountaineer  toward  slavery  and  emanci- 
pation would  give  just  the  touch  of  serio- 
comic oddity  needed  to  set  the  "vanishing 
line  "  of  the  old  regime  most  tellingly  be- 
fore the  public.  The  impression  haunted 
me  so  that  I  returned  to  the  mountain 
country  and  studied  over  again  the  details 
of  life  there,  collecting  from  every  available 
source  the  materials  used  in  my  sketches. 
When  these  were  refused  by  the  editors 
upon  both  business  and  political  grounds, 
I  felt  to  a  degree  the  justice  of  the  criti- 
cism, considering  the  state  of  public  senti- 
ment at  both  the  North  and  the  South  just 
then.  And  even  when  the  stories  did 
appear  in  the  magazines,  they  were  stren- 
uously objected  to  by  some  Southern 
extremists  as  being  favorable  to  Northern 
prejudices,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  many 
Northern  readers,  especially  in  New  Eng- 
land, castigated  me  severely  for  my  sym- 
pathy with  the  slaveholder  and  the  "  Lost 
Cause  "  !     Between  the  two  armies  of  ob- 


lO  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

jectors  I  felt  timid  about  printing  the 
stories  in  book  form,  and  so  they  have  lain 
until  now. 

I  would  not  have  it  understood  that  I 
magnify  the  importance  of  these  stories,  as 
stories.  I  am  keenly  aware  of  their  many 
imperfections.  They  are  offered  as  side- 
lights to  history.  Dunk  Roe  of  Pinelog 
assured  me  in  a  talk,  written  down  in  1896, 

—  a  late  date  in  the  breaking-up  period, 

—  that  "  ef  er  feller  air  inter  a  noshen  thet 
er  nigger  air  es  good  es  er  white  man,  thet 
air  feller  needs  hell  three  times  er  day." 
But  Dunk  Roe  was,  and  probably  still  is, 
a  politician  to  be  classed  morally  with 
those  Northerners  who  deem  it  their  duty 
to  cram  the  negro  forcibly  into  the  cars, 
the  theatres,  the  schools,  and  the  churches 
built,  owned,  and  operated  by  white  South- 
erners for  the  use  of  white  Southerners. 

The  color-line  is  not  a  line  of  disgrace  to 
black  or  white.  There  would  be  no  trou- 
ble on  it,  if  it  were  respected  by  man  as 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  II 

thoroughly  as  God  respected  it  in  creating 
the  two  races.  Dunk  Roe  said :  "  God 
A'mighty  air  'sponsible  fer  the  black  on  er 
nigger  an'  fer  the  white  on  er  white  man. 
Hit  ain't  no  disgrace  fer  er  nigger  ter  be 
er  nigger,  ner  fer  er  white  man  ter  be  er 
white  man.  Hit  air  w'en  er  nigger  tries 
ter  be  white,  an'  er  white  man  wrassles  ter 
be  er  nigger,  'at  the  disgrace  comes  in." 
The  "  Race  Romance "  exhibits  a  white 
man  who  felt  called  upon  to  do  missionary 
work  with  the  purpose  of  reversing  the 
order  of  things  on  the  color-line.  Peevy 
says  that  "  what  thet  air  nigger  finally  an' 
everlastin'ly  done  ter  thet  dern  white  man 
do  p'intedly  show  jes'  what  'd  happing  ter 
all  the  white  folks  o'  this  kentry  ef  them 
dad  ding  nigger-lovers  hed  ther  way." 

In  writing  these  sketches  it  was  my  aim 
to  occupy  an  impartial  point  of  view.  I 
told  my  old  friend  Brimson,  some  time 
before  his  experiment  wrecked  him,  that 
I  had  no  argument  to  offer  for  or  against 


12  COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES 

the  theory  that  he  so  enthusiastically  main- 
tained ;  but  Dunk  Roe  spoke  freely  to 
him,  in  nearly  these  words :  — 

"  Brimson,  hit  air  er  fac'  'at  ye  hain't  got 
half  sense ;  but  er  dern  fool  orter  know  'at 
ye  cayn't  edicate  er  nigger  in  fifteen 
minutes  so  'at  he  kin  be  like  er  white  man. 
Hit  hev  tuck  erbout  er  million  years  to 
edicate  the  white  man  an'  mek  'im  reason- 
able decent ;  an'  how  the  dernation  kin  ye 
'spect  tertek  er  eejit  nigger  an'  mek  a  ekal 
ter  the  white  man  of  'im  ?  An'  'spacially 
wi'  er  triflin'  ole  sap-head,  like  ye  air,  fer 
ter  do  it." 

In  the  course  of  my  latest  inquiries  I 
talked  with  an  intelligent  old  negro  named 
Tuck  Baker,  an  original  character,  if  there 
ever  was  one.  Before  and  during  the  war 
he  belonged  to  'Squire  Baker  on  Pinelog. 
I  inquired  about  him  before  seeing  him, 
and  was  not  surprised  when,  to  one  of  my 
direct  questions,  he  made  answer :  — 

"Ya-a-s,  sah,   boss,    I   done   voted  one 


COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES  13 

time  at  de  'lection,  an'  dat  's  'nuff  fo'  Tuck. 
Ya-a-s,  sah." 

He  wagged  his  grizzled  woolly  head  and 
grinned  with  reminiscent  opulence  of  ex- 
pression, his  face  shining  like  a  gargoyle 
polished  with  lampblack. 

"  Ya-a-s,  sah,  I  done  put  in  one  vote,  an' 
cotch  it  in  de  yea'  good  an'  hard  fo'  it; 
ya-a-s,  sah." 

"  How  was  that.  Tuck .? "  I  inquired  with 
insinuating  emphasis. 

"  How  wus  it  ?  Yo'  ax  how  wus  it  ? 
Well,  sah,  boss,  hit  wus  lak  er  bein'  kicked 
wid  er  fo'  yea'  ole  mule ;  dat 's  jes'  'zac'ly 
how  it  wus." 

Tuck  was  a  huge  man ;  nor  had  his 
sixty-five  years  lessened  the  solidity  of  his 
ebon  bulk  of  muscles.  As  he  stood  before 
me,  grinning  and  gazing  aslant  reflectively, 
he  gave  me  the  fullest  impression  of  half- 
savage  humor  strongly  affected  by  a  very 
noteworthy  and  wholly  comical  recollec- 
tion. 


14  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

"  Ya-a-s,  sah,  boss,  I  chuck  one  vote  in- 
ter de  box ;  an'  I  wus  er  feelin'  ez  big  es  er 
skinned  boss  on  dat  'casion,  kase  dem  whi' 
men  wus  all  stan'in'  roun'  er  lookin'  at  me 
while  I  say :  '  Yar  go  my  senterments  ; ' 
an'  jes'  den  I  feel  somep'n'." 

He  chuckled  and  shook  his  head  with  a 
certain  indescribable  expression  of  jocund- 

ity. 

"  Ya-a-s,  sah,  I  feel  somep'n'  what  jar  dis 
yer  ole  haid  same  lak  er  bar'l  er  co'n  been 
drap  on  it.  I  'spec  I  went  er  whollopin' 
heel  ober  haid  pooty  nigh  erbout  seben- 
teen  feet  en  struck  de  groun'  on  de  back 
o'  my  haid.  Ya-a-s,  sah,  I  did  fall  outda- 
cious  hard;  en  den  I  year  er  whi'  man 
say :  '  Dat 's  my  senterments,  yo  darn  black 
whelp!'  Ya-a-s,  sah,  dat's  jes'  w'at  he  say, 
en  he  's  de  one  'at  hit  me  en  mighty  nigh 
bus'  my  haid." 

He  pressed  his  big  black  hand  on  his  ear, 
as  if  he  still  felt  the  effect  of  the  buffet. 

"  Ya-a-s,  sah,  I 's  not  b'en  er  doin'  berry 


COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES  1$ 

much  votin'  sence  dat  day.  Yah,  yah, 
yahee ! " 

His  laugh  was  atrociously,  barbarously 
charged  with  delight  in  his  reminiscence. 

"  Boss,"  he  presently  added,  "  is  yo' 
'quainted  wid  Mistah  Bud  Peeby  ?  " 

I  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  Well,  sah,  boss,  't  wus  him  'at  knock  de 
votin'  notion  clean  out  'n  me.  Yah,  yah, 
yahee-e-e ! " 

And  between  Brimson  and  Peevy  lies 
an  area  which,  doubtless,  is  the  land  of  the 
golden  mean.  Tuck  seemed  satisfied,  nay 
stimulated,  as  he  thus  sketched,  with  dra- 
matic strokes  distinctly  African,  his  one 
experience  at  the  polls  ;  and  I  saw  that  he 
fully  realized  the  beauty  of  the  inevitable. 

"  Ya-a-s,  sah,  boss,"  he  remarked  in  con- 
clusion, giving  his  clouted  trousers  an  up- 
ward jerk,  "  ya-a-s,  sah,  boss,  I  done  retired 
fom  polertics,  sho  's  yo'  bo'n !  I  done  ater- 
wards  tole  Mistah  Bud  Peeby  'at  it  seem 
lak  his  senterments  is  mo'  stronger  'n  mine. 


l6  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

Ya-a-s,  sail,  I  done  tole  'm  dat.  No,  sah, 
boss,  I  's  not  hongry  ter  vote  no  mo',  yah, 
yah,  yahee-e-e !  Sho  's  yo'  bo'n  I 's  done 
fill  plum'  full  an'  er  runnin'  ober,  —  I  done 
got  er  plenty;  don'  wush  no  mo'.  I  done 
tole  Mistah  Bud  Peeby  'at  he  kin  do  my 
votin'  fo'  me ;  ya-a-s,  sah." 

Upon  the  whole,  however,  the  change 
from  master  and  slave  to  boss  and  freed- 
man  has  generated  no  deep  troubles. 
Peevy  and  Tuck  are  excellent  friends  as 
they  toe  the  color-line.  They  regard  each 
other  with  humorous  respect,  comprehend- 
ing the  situation  far  more  clearly  than  do 
the  good  zealots  who  from  afar  off  shout 
for  equality.  The  black  and  white  are  ar- 
ranging the  difficult  details  of  their  rela- 
tions by  the  law  of  Nature,  a  law  which  no 
legislative  body  can  successfully  modify  or 
amend,  which  no  earthly  power  can  repeal. 
And  what  a  picturesque  civilization  the 
two  colors  are  forming! 

The  line  fades  more  slowly  in  the  moun- 


COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES  1/ 

tain  region  than  it  does  in  the  most  aristo- 
cratic part  of  the  low  country.  Education 
is  a  sponge  that  wipes  out  prejudice,  which 
is  the  only  real  stumbling-block  of  Chris- 
tian people  black  and  white.  But  educa- 
tion proceeds  slowly  when  it  has  to  climb 
rocky  steeps  and  stumble  along  inhospi- 
table fells.  Besides,  the  mountaineers  re- 
sent every  hint  of  change,  every  sugges- 
tion from  outside  their  customs  and  habits, 
every  apparition  of  authority;  and  they 
cannot  understand  how  a  man,  sitting  away 
off  yonder  as  a  court  of  law,  can  have  the 
right  to  send  another  man,  as  a  sheriff,  to 
meddle  with  their  affairs.  Hodson  had  no 
conception  of  the  right  of  Confederate  or 
Federal  officials  to  order  him  into  war  or 
to  bid  him  let  go  his  slave.  So  the  distil- 
ler of  "  mounting  jew  "  whiskey  at  this  mo- 
ment has  no  sense  of  transgression  on  his 
part,  when  he  resists  the  revenue  squad ; 
but  it  seems  certain  to  him  that  the  gov- 
ernment is  an  outlaw. 


l8  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

"  Hit  use  ter  be  right  fer  every  man  'at 
wanted  to  ter  build  'im  er  still-house  an' 
mek  all  the  licker  'at  he  wushed  to,"  said 
Lige  Hackett,  "  an'  I  jes'  cay  n't  see  how 
hit 's  any  wronger  now  'an  hit  wus  then. 
I  'd  jes'  shoot  seving  diffe'nt  sorts  o'  liver 
an'  lights  outen  any  gov'ment  jay-hawker 
'at  'ud  kem  foolin'  'roun'  my  place  er  biz- 
ness,  an'  don't  ye  fergit  it !  " 

Now,  in  the  days  when  I  was  a  moun- 
taineer I  rolled  all  of  these  elementary 
philosophic  peculiarities  under  my  tongue 
as  morsels  sweet  as  honey-wax  from  Arca- 
dia. With  every  breath  from  the  hills  of 
Habersham,  with  every  waft  from  Rabun, 
or  Estell,  or  from  the  wild  pockets  of 
Dade,  I  drew  in  unlimited  love  of  savage, 
absolute  freedom.  I  got  firmly  footed 
upon  the  ground  occupied  by  Peevy  and 
Rudgis  and  Hodson.  But  I  trod  the  color- 
line  with  a  full  appreciation  also  of  those 
genial  and  faithful  grotesques  who  ploughed 
and  hoed  and  sang  so  blithely  in  the  fields 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  19 

of  corn  and  cotton.  Ah  !  the  old  days,  — 
call  them  quasi-feudal,  call  them  a  faded 
and  feeble  reflection  of  medieval  romance, 
give  them  what  bitter  name  you  will,  —  I 
tell  you  that  they  were  like  old  mellow  wine, 
and  the  smack  of  them  can  never  quit  the 
tongue  that  tasted  them.  The  dance  in 
the  big  house  and  the  hoe-down  in  the 
kitchen,  it  were  hard  to  say  which  was  the 
merrier.  The  blacks  worked ;  but  never 
before,  since  Eve  ate  and  Adam  gorged  to 
purchase  a  curse,  did  laborers  seem  to  have 
so  good  a  time  at  their  tasks.  The  whites 
played  from  morning  till  night ;  yet  all 
play  and  no  work  did  not  sour  the  life  they 
lived. 

The  few  negroes  owned  by  mountain- 
eers were  coddled  as  precious  pet  animals 
sometimes  are.  Even  men  like  Peevy  were 
over-indulgent  masters,  strictly  as  they  in- 
sisted upon  every  formality  of  the  color- 
line.  The  story  of  "  Ben  and  Judas"  indi- 
cates one  of  the  curious  results  of  constant 


20  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

and  long  personal  familiarity  between  ex- 
ceptional individuals  of  the  two  races  where 
the  slackest  state  of  thralldom  and  the 
warmest  sort  of  sympathy  ruled  conditions. 
It  is  a  sketch  from  life.  In  my  childhood 
I  knew  the  men,  and  in  my  youth  I  heard 
the  story  of  the  melon-patches  and  the 
prayer  over  the  delicious  plunder.  Indeed, 
it  was  while  on  a  pedestrian  ramble  in 
"  Piedmont  Georgia,"  as  the  late  Mr. 
Grady,  the  gifted  editor  and  orator,  named 
the  lower  hill  country,  that  I  (searching 
for  a  few  bits  of  local  color  needed  in  re- 
vising "Ben  and  Judas")  fell  upon  high 
fortune  in  making  the  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  Hector  Aaron  Lifter,  M.  A.  He  was 
a  clever  yellow  man,  a  graduate  and  post 
graduate  of  an  obscure  Northern  college, 
and  absorbed  in  self-conceit  while  osten- 
sibly doing  educational  missionary  work 
among  the  blacks,  whom  he  patronizingly 
spoke  of  as  "  My  people." 

I  had  little  to  do  with  Lifter ;  but  I  am 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  21 

infinitely  indebted  to  him  for  a  collection 
of  curious  rhymes  and  crude  ditties  picked 
up  by  him  during  two  or  three  years  of 
commendable  research  and  inquiry.  Not 
a  few  of  the  pieces  in  this  collection  have 
been  familiar  to  me  from  childhood  ;  but 
there  are  many  that  appear  to  be  of  more 
recent  origin.  Slaves  were  fond  of  gro- 
tesque music,  which  they  often  attempted 
to  imitate  in  metre  and  rhyme.  Here  are 
a  few  examples  of  negro  word-melody :  — 

«  Mule  colt, 
Shuck  coUah, 
Blame  mule 
Eat  de  coUah, 
Cost  ole  massa 
Half  er  doUah." 

"  Hi,  oh,  Mariley  come  down  de  mountain, 

Ho,  Mariley,  ho-o-oh  ! 
Wid  er  sta'  on  'is  breas'  an'  er  ring  on  'is  finger, 

Ho,  Mariley,  ho-o-oh  ! 
Hi,  oh,  Mariley  look  like  er  preacher, 

Ho,  Mariley,  ho-o-oh  ! 
But  de  Debbil  tuck  er  chunk  an'  he  burnt  ole  Mariley, 

Ho,  Mariley,  ho-o-oh !  " 


22  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

Both  of  the  foregoing  examples  are  corn 
songs,  that  is,  they  were  sung  mostly  at 
corn-huskings  by  night ;  but  the  following 
are  field  songs,  probably  improvised  by 
ploughmen  while  trudging  in  the  fragrant 
furrows  across  the  bottom  lands:  — 

"  Grow,  co'n,  grow  in  de  new  groun'  bottom, 

Grow,  co'n,  grow,  yi  ho-o-o  ! 
Yd'  heah  me,  co'n,  den  lissen  w'at  I  tole  yo', 
Grow,  co'n,  grow,  ho-ee-hoee,  ho  !  " 

"Dey's  er  gal  in  de  kitchen  er  bakin'  de  braid. 
Hilly,  hally,  hally  ho,  hi  ho  ! 
En  dat  gal's  eye  sorty  twinkle  in  'er  haid. 
Hilly  ho,  hally  ho,  hi  ho-o-o  !  " 

"  Chicken,  O  chicken,  is  ye  gwine  ter  roos'  low  ? 

Roos'  low,  roos'  low. 
Fo'  de  big  pot 's  er  biiin'  ober  de  fire, 

Roos'  low,  roos'  low, 
En  po'  ole  nig  cay  n't  climb  much  higher, 

Roos'  low,  roos'  low !  " 

"  Runt  pig,  runt  pig,  is  yo'  sho'  yo'  knows  me  ? 

Piggy>  Piggy>  pig.  Pigoo  ! 
Dey  's  er  nubbin  er  co'n  in  de  basket  fo'  yo', 
Pigoo,  pigoo,  pigoo ! 


COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES  23 

Runt  pig,  runt  pig,  fatten  up  faster, 

P'ggy»  piggy,  pig.  Pigoo  ' 

En  w'en  yo'  's  gone  ole  mars'  won't  miss  yo', 
Pigoo,  pigoo,  pigoo  ! " 

The  pieces  that  are  probably  of  early 
post-slavery  date  have  an  unwelcome  touch 
of  self-conscious  sentiment  in  them.  I 
need  quote  but  one :  — 

"  De  ole  time  gone  en  I  go  too, 

De  ole  time  gone  erway. 
Dey  's  no  mo'  light  in  cabin  doo', 

De  ole  time  gone  erway. 
Wha'  dem  chill'en  ?  Wha'  ole  mudder  ? 

De  ole  time  gone  erway. 
Wha'  ole  marstah  ?  Wha'  ole  mist'ess  ? 

De  ole  time  gone  erway." 

But  Paul  Dunbar  has  shown  that  the 
native  strain  of  poetry  in  the  negro's  na- 
ture can  find  much  nobler  utterance  than 
these  crude  bits  would  have  seemed  to 
promise.  I  quote  them  merely  to  give 
the  warrant  I  had  for  introducing  certain 
negro  songs  of  my  own  as  coming  from 
the  lips  of   my  black  people.     And  it  is 


24  COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES 

well  to  note  here  that  the  negroes  of  the 
highlands  were  far  more  merry,  genial,  and 
musical  than  those  of  the  lowlands.  I  once 
made  a  voyage  down  the  Coosawattee 
River  in  a  corn  boat  manned  by  negroes. 
Our  way  led  us  between  incomparably  rich 
plantations  lying  on  either  side  of  the 
stream  ;  but  it  was  only  now  and  then  that 
we  could  see  the  fields,  the  banks  being 
high  and  densely  fringed  with  reeds.  One 
of  our  crew  had  what  the  negroes  called 
"  quills ;  "  it  was  a  rude  syrinx,  made  (ex- 
actly to  the  ancient  pattern)  of  graduated 
cane  joints  fastened  together  in  a  row,  on 
which  he  played  a  barbaric  tune  while 
some  of  the  others  patted  and  danced. 

In  the  night  from  the  distant  plantation 
quarters  we  often  heard  answering  quills, 
whose  strains  softened  by  remoteness 
struck  my  sense  with  an  indescribable 
dreamy  pathos.  One  evening,  while  we 
lingered  at  an  obscure  ferry,  a  small  party 
of  slaves  in  charge  of  a  good-natured  over- 


COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES  25 

seer  came  down  the  little  clay  road  to  the 
river,  and  spent  awhile  with  us  before 
crossing.  One  huge  black  fellow  begged 
the  quills  from  our  man,  and  blew  so 
sweetly  on  it  that  the  tune  roUics  in  my 
memory  to  this  day.  Another  fellow,  a 
stripling  with  a  face  which  was  nearly  all 
mouth,  sang  a  ditty  of  which  I  can  give 
but  one  stanza :  — 

"  Side-meat  en  sweet  'taters  eat  mighty  good, 
En  my  gal 's  er  gwine  home  in  de  mo'nin' ; 
Debbil  say  he  'bout  ter  die,  don'  yo'  wush  he  would  ? 

En  my  gal 's  er  gwine  home  in  de  mo'nin'  ; 
Hip,  hi,  shuffle  knee  high, 

Fo'  my  gal 's  er  gwine  home  in  de  mo'nin'." 

It  was  the  sunny -minded,  optimistic 
negroes  whose  slavery  days  fell  among  the 
mountains,  and  when  one  of  them  belonged 
to  a  true  highlander  there  was  little  dan- 
ger that  thralldom  would  be  more  or  less 
than  an  idyllic  experience,  well  worth  pre- 
serving in  art  far  more  beautiful  than 
mine.     In  one  of  my  notebooks  I  find  the 


26  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

following  nearly  verbatim  report  of  what 
Steve  Iley  told  me  about  his  negro :  — 

"  He  war  nat'ly  no  ercount ;  but  he  cud 
play  the  banjer  an'  sing  ter  everlastin'. 
Folks  use  ter  come  clean  f'om  Ellijay  "  (a 
county  seat  fifteen  miles  distant)  "to  yer 
'im  pick  an'  sing  'is  songs.  I  use  to  swa' 
ter  myself  'at  I  'd  whirp  'im  fo'  not  workin'; 
but  he  war  so  dad  burn  comic  'at  I  jes' 
cud  n't  keep  f'om  laughin'  at  'im." 

"And  what  became  of  him?"  I  inquired. 

"  Wat  'come  er  my  nigger  Tom  ?  Oh, 
he 's  er  livin'  over  the  mounting  yander. 
Wen  the  wa'  freed  'im  I  druv  'im  off'n  my 
place  'cause  he  called  me  '  boss,'  the  dad 
burn  ole  vilyan." 

I  have  never  been  able  to  hear  of  a  single 
negro  who  has  habitually  used  the  word 
master  since  the  war  in  personally  address- 
ing his  former  owner,  and  the  mountain- 
eer does  not  take  kindly  to  being  called 
boss. 

That  genial  and  gifted  man,  the  author 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  2/ 

of  the  "  Uncle  Remus "  books,  is  of  the 
opinion  that  Southern  slaves  knew  but 
little  about  the  banjo  ;  the  fiddle,  he  thinks, 
was  their  chief  musical  instrument.  I 
make  no  controversy,  and  only  know  that 
in  the  mountains  the  white  men  fiddled 
and  the  blacks  "  picked  de  banjer."  Many 
a  time  all  night  long  have  I  obeyed  the 
commands  :  "Swing  yer  pardners  an'  circle 
ter  the  lef,"  "  Sighshay,"  "  First  gentleman 
ter  the  lef, "  "  Balernce  all,"  and  the  like, 
to  the  music  of  a  home-made  banjo  played 
by  a  negro ;  but  this  was  of  course  only 
when  a  fiddler  could  not  be  had. 

I  shall  never  forget  an  orchestra  that  we 
were  honored  with  one  night  at  the  spa- 
cious cabin  of  Jere  Borders,  somewhere 
near  the  head  waters  of  the  Salliquoy.  An 
octogenarian  white  fiddler,  a  fat  negro 
banjoist,  and  a  "  straw  drummer  "  were  the 
musicians.  The  straw  drummer's  business 
was  to  beat  time  upon  the  fiddle  strings 
during  the  playing.     Late  in  the  evening 


28  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

there  was  a  misunderstanding,  and  most  of 
us  quit  dancing  and  began  a  lively  fight. 
Out  went  all  the  lights,  save  that  from  a 
flickering  pine  knot  on  the  hearth,  and 
there  was  hot  work  for  five  minutes  in  the 
dark.  When  it  was  all  over,  and  we 
thought  it  time  to  resume  the  dance.  Hank, 
the  fat  black  banjoist,  was  missing,  and 
after  some  search  we  found  him  up  the 
chimney,  where  he  was  wedged  in  so  fast 
that  we  had  to  pull  him  down  by  the  legs; 
but  so  carefully  had  he  guarded  his  beloved 
instrument  that  it  was  not  even  out  of 
tune !  It  was  that  banjo  of  Hank's  from 
which  came  the  main  suggestion  of  "  A 
Dusky  Genius."  Hank  himself  took  great 
delight  in  explaining  to  me  how  he  wrought 
the  rude  yet  beautiful  lute,  the  head  of 
which  was  covered  with  a  translucent 
opossum-skin. 

My  own  first  lessons  in  banjo-picking 
were  received  from  "  old  John,"  the  coal- 
black    property    of    Mr.   Joseph   Wilson, 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  29 

whose  plantation  lay  on  the  Coosawattee, 
about  seven  miles  northeast  of  Calhoun  in 
Gordon  County,  Georgia.  Later  a  friend, 
Mr.  John  O'Callaghan,  of  the  same  town, 
left  in  my  possession  for  some  years  an 
excellent  instrument  made  by  a  negro. 
Indeed,  I  know  that  the  slaves  of  the 
mountain  region  were  in  many  instances 
very  ingenious  and  skillful  mechanics  as 
well  as  musicians.  A  curious  lute  was 
made  by  one  darkey  thus :  A  gourd  vine 
was  trained  to  grow  along  the  ground,  and 
when  a  young  gourd  began  to  form,  two 
broad  boards  were  driven  parallel  firmly 
into  the  earth  in  such  a  position  that  as 
the  gourd  grew  it  was  forced  to  take  a  flat 
form  between  them.  When  it  had  ripened 
and  hardened  it  was  scraped  and  polished, 
the  handle  sawed  off,  the  insides  neatly  re- 
moved. Then  a  banjo-neck  was  fitted  on, 
sound-holes  cut,  a  bridge  and  strings  put 
on,  and  lo !  a  banjo,  the  dry,  hollow,  thinly 
flattened  gourd  serving  as  the  body ;  and 


30  COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES 

a  comical  instrument  it  was,  feeble,  stu- 
pid sounding,  but  yet  giving  forth  true 
notes. 

The  story  entitled  "  The  Balance  of 
Power  "  brings  another  slight  change  on 
the  color-line.  Political  currents  swirled 
at  random  for  some  time  in  the  South  be- 
fore the  whites  fairly  got  things  to  going 
their  own  way.  In  the  low  country  the 
outcome  has  been  through  constitutional 
amendment,  limiting  the  exercise  of  the 
elective  franchise  to  citizens  of  lawful  age 
who  can  read  and  satisfactorily  explain  to 
the  proper  board  a  section  of  the  state  or- 
ganic law.  Of  course  the  board  is  com- 
posed of  white  men,  and  when  I  was  in 
northern  Mississippi,  soon  after  the  con- 
stitutional change  began  to  operate  in 
that  State,  I  made  some  inquiries  regard- 
ing the  effect  of  it.  I  had  followed  the 
subsiding  billows  of  the  great  Sand  Moun- 
tain disturbance  across  Alabama,  and  was 
now  beating  around  among   the  farewell 


COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES  31 

hills.  Aaron  Harper  explained  the  mat- 
ter to  me.     Said  he  :  — 

"  I  never  went  ter  no  school,  an'  never 
hed  no  I'arnin',  an'  hit  s'prised  me  mighty 
nigh  inter  fits  w'en  I  suddently  found  out 
'at  I  could  read.  Hit  wus  this  way :  I  goes 
down  ter  town  'lection  day  ter  vote,  an' 
there 's  ebout  two  hundred  niggers  tromp- 
in'  eroun'  on  thet  same  business  ;  but  nary 
er  dern  one  o'  'em  could  read  thet  conster- 
tootion.  Well,  sa',  w'at  ye  s'pose  I  done 
w'en  they  stuck  thet  air  docymint  under 
my  nose  ?  " 

"  You  were  in  a  pretty  close  place,"  I 
ventured. 

"  Close  place,  nothin',"  he  remarked  in  a 
tone  of  vast  contempt.  "  Ye  s'pose  I  wus 
goin'  ter  stan'  'roun'  ther'  er  suckin'  my 
thumb,  like  them  dern  niggers,  an'  not 
vote?" 

"  But  what  could  you  do  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"Do.?  What'd  I  do?"  he  repeated, 
with  a  peculiar  sardonic  grin.     "  W'y,  I  jes' 


32  COLOR-LINE   JOCUNDITIES 

nat'ly  grabbed  thet  constertootion  an'  read 
it  for'd  an'  back'rds  an'  sideways  an'  edge- 
ways, thet 's  w'at  I  done ;  an'  I  'splained 
ever  single  dern  word  o'  it  ter  them  jedges 
jes'  like  er  loryer  ter  a  jury.  Vote  ?  I 
cud  er  voted  seving  times  ef  I  'd  wanted 
ter.     An'  nary  dern  nigger  got  er  smell !  " 

I  laughed,  of  course. 

"  Hit  air  sorter  funny,"  he  admitted,  with 
a  wink,  "  an'  I  s'pec'  'at  I  won't  be  able  ter 
read  er  nother  dad  burn  word  tell  nex' 
'lection ! " 

Up  in  the  true  mountain  country  the 
negroes  have  never  given  any  very  great 
political  trouble ;  but  in  a  few  localities, 
under  stress  of  a  particularly  close  and  ex- 
citing squabble  for  office,  the  balance  of 
power  has  been  negatively,  if  not  positively, 
controlled  by  the  colored  element.  Curi- 
ously enough,  the  candidate  who  has 
gained  this  deciding  increment  has  been 
invariably  defeated  ;  nor  is  this  rule  likely 
to  be  changed  in  the  future.     The  balance 


COLOR-LINE  JOCUNDITIES  33 

of  power,  like  every  other  political  gift 
accidentally  tossed  to  the  negroes  by  a 
grotesque  fortune,  is  but  a  huge  joke  to 
be  cracked  on  the  color-line. 

But  notwithstanding  the  humor  of  these 
slowly  fading  conditions,  the  facts  under 
them  are  grim,  dense,  imperishable ;  they 
demand  respectful  and  unprejudiced  treat- 
ment in  art  and  history,  as  registering  the 
vanishing-point  of  a  tremendous  old-time 
influence  and  the  starting-point  of  a  new 
regime  in  the  hill  country.  What  a  period 
of  romance  the  old  slavery  time  was ;  and 
yet  it  had  no  romancer !  What  a  life  of 
poetry;  but  it  had  no  poet!  What  a  cycle 
of  history ;  yet  not  a  historian  to  record  it ! 
What  an  epic ;  and  never  a  Homer  !  What 
a  tragedy ;  but  not  a  Sophocles,  not  a 
Shakespeare ! 


BEN   AND   JUDAS 

On  a  dark  and  stormy  summer  night, 
early  in  the  present  century,  two  male  chil- 
dren were  born  on  the  Wilson  plantation 
in  middle  Georgia.  One  of  the  babes 
came  into  the  world  covered  with  a  skin 
as  black  as  the  night,  the  other  was  of  that 
complexion  known  as  sandy ;  one  was 
born  a  slave,  the  other  a  free  American 
citizen.  Two  such  screeching  and  squall- 
ing infants  never  before  or  since  assaulted 
simultaneously  the  peace  of  the  world. 
Such  lungs  had  they,  and  such  vocal 
chords,  that  cabin  and  mansion  fairly  shook 
with  their  boisterous  and  unrhythmical 
wailing.  The  white  mother  died,  leaving 
her  chubby,  kicking,  bawling  offspring  to 
share  the  breast  of  the  more  fortunate  col- 
ored matron  with  the  fat,  black,  howling 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  35 

hereditary  dependent  thereto  ;  and  so  Ben 
and  Judas,  master  and  slave,  began  their 
companionship  at  the  very  fountain  of  life. 
They  grew,  as  it  were,  arm  in  arm  and 
quite  apace  with  each  other,  as  healthy 
boys  will,  crawling,  then  toddling,  anon 
running  on  the  sandy  lawn  between  the 
cabin  and  the  mansion,  often  quarreling, 
sometimes  fighting  vigorously.  Soon 
enough,  however,  Judas  discovered  that, 
by  some  invisible  and  inscrutable  decree, 
he  was  slave  to  Ben,  and  Ben  became  aware 
that  he  was  rightful  master  to  Judas.  The 
conditions  adjusted  themselves  to  the  lives 
of  the  boys  in  a  most  peculiar  way.  The 
twain  became  almost  inseparable,  and  grew 
up  so  intimately  that  Judas  looked  like  the 
black  shadow  of  Ben.  If  one  rode  a  horse, 
the  other  rode  a  mule;  if  the  white  boy 
habitually  set  his  hat  far  back  on  his  head, 
the  negro  did  the  same ;  if  Ben  went  swim- 
ming or  fishing,  'there  went  Judas  also. 
And  yet  Ben  was  forever  scolding  Judas 


36  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

and  threatening  to  whip  him,  a  proceeding 
treated  quite  respectfully  and  as  a  matter 
of  course  by  the  slave.  Wherever  they 
went  Ben  walked  a  pace  or  two  in  advance 
of  Judas,  who  followed,  however,  with  ex- 
actly the  consequential  air  of  his  master, 
and  with  a  step  timed  to  every  peculiarity 
observable  in  the  pace  set  by  his  leader. 
Ben's  father,  who  became  dissipated  and 
careless  after  his  wife's  death,  left  the  boy 
to  come  up  rather  loosely,  and  ther^  was 
no  one  to  make  a  note  of  the  constantly 
growing  familiarity  between  the  two  youths; 
nor  did  any  person  chance  to  observe  how 
much  alike  they  were  becoming  as  time 
slipped  away.  Ben's  education  was  neg- 
lected, albeit  now  and  again  a  tutor  was 
brought  to  the  Wilson  place,  and  some  ef- 
fort was  made  to  soften  the  crust  of  igno- 
rance which  was  forming  around  the  lad's 
mind.  Stormy  and  self-willed,  with  a  pe- 
culiar facility  in  the  rapid  selection  and 
instantaneous  use  of  the  most  picturesque 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  37 

and  outlandish  expletives,  Ben  drove  these 
adventurous  disciples  of  learning  one  by- 
one  from  the  place,  and  at  length  grew  to 
manhood  and  to  be  master  of  the  Wilson 
plantation  (when  his  father  died)  without 
having  changed  in  the  least  the  manner  of 
his  i^life.  He  did  not  marry,  nor  did  he 
think  of  marriage,  but  grew  stout  and 
round-shouldered,  stormed  and  raved  when 
he  felt  like  it,  threatened  all  the  negroes, 
whipped  not  one  of  them,  and  so  went 
along  into  middle  life,  and  beyond,  with 
Judas  treading  as  exactly  as  possible  in  his 
footprints. 

They  grew  prematurely  old,  these  two 
men  :  the  master's  white  hair  was  matched 
by  the  slave's  snowy  wool ;  they  both 
walked  with  a  shufHing  gait,  and  their 
faces  gradually  took  on  a  network  of 
wrinkles  ;  neither  wore  any  beard.  To 
this  day  it  remains  doubtful  which  was 
indebted  most  to  the  other  in  the  matter 
of  borrowed  characteristics.      The  negro 


38  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

hoarded  up  the  white  man's  words,  espe- 
cially the  polysyllabic  ones,  and  in  turn  the 
white  man  adopted  in  an  elusive,  modified 
way  the  negro's  pronunciation  and  ges- 
tures. If  the  African  apostatized  and  fell 
away  from  the  grace  of  a  savage  taste  to 
like  soda  biscuits  and  very  sweet  coffee, 
the  American  of  Scotch  descent  dropped 
so  low  in  barbarity  that  he  became  a  con- 
firmed 'possum-eater.  Ben  Wilson  could 
read  after  a  fashion,  and  had  a  taste  for 
romance  of  the  swashbuckler,  kidnap-a- 
heroine  sort.  Judas  was  a  good  listener, 
as  his  master  mouthed  these  wonderful 
stories  aloud,  and  his  hereditary  Congo 
imagination,  crude  but  powerful,  was  fed 
and  strengthened  by  the  pabulum  thus 
absorbed. 

It  was  a  picture  worth  seeing,  worth 
sketching  in  pure  colors  and  setting  in  an 
imperishable  frame,  that  group,  the  master, 
the  slave,  and  the  dog  Chawm.  Chawm  is 
a  name  boiled  down  from  "  chew  them  ;  " 


BEN    AND   JUDAS  39 

as  a  Latin  commentator  would  put  it  : 
chew  them,  vel  chaw  them,  vel  chaw  'em, 
vel  chawm.  He  was  a  copperas-yellow  cur 
of  middle  size  and  indefinite  age,  who  loved 
to  lie  at  the  feet  of  his  two  masters  and 
snap  at  the  flies.  This  trio,  when  they 
came  together  for  a  literary  purpose,  usu- 
ally occupied  that  part  of  the  old  vine-cov- 
ered veranda  which  caught  the  black  after- 
noon shade  of  the  Wilson  mansion.  In 
parenthesis  let  me  say  that  I  use  this  word 
mansion  out  of  courtesy,  for  the  house  was 
small  and  dilapidated ;  the  custom  of  the 
country  made  it  a  mansion,  just  as  Ben 
Wilson  was  made  Colonel  Ben. 

There  they  were,  the  white,  the  black, 
and  the  dog,  enjoying  a  certain  -story  of 
mediaeval  days,  about  a  nameless,  terrible 
knight-errant  who  had  stolen  and  borne 
away  the  beautiful  Rosamond ;  and  about 
the  slender,  graceful  youth  who  buckled 
his  heavy  armor  on  to  ride  off  in  melo- 
dramatic   pursuit.     Judas    listened    with 


40  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

eyes  half  closed  and  mouth  agape  ;  Chawm 
was  panting,  possibly  with  excitement,  his 
red  tongue  lolling  and  weltering,  and  his 
kindly  brown  eyes  upturned  to  watch  the 
motions  of  Ben's  leisurely  lips.  There  was 
a  wayward  breeze,  a  desultory  satin  rustle, 
in  the  vine-leaves.  The  sky  was  cloudless, 
the  red  country  road  hot  and  dusty,  the 
mansion  all  silent  within.  Some  negro 
ploughmen  were  singing  plaintively  far  off 
in  a  cornfield.  The  eyes  of  Judas  grew 
blissfully  heavy,  closed  themselves,  his 
under  jaw  fell  lower,  he  snored  in  a  deep, 
mellow,  well-satisfied  key.  Ben  ceased 
reading  and  looked  at  the  sleepers,  for 
Chawm,  too,  had  fallen  into  a  light  doze. 

"  Dad  blast  yer  lazy  hides !  Wake  erp 
yer,  er  I  '11  thrash  ye  till  ye  don't  know  yer- 
selves !  Wake  up,  I  say ! "  Ben's  voice 
started  echoes  in  every  direction.  Chawm 
sprung  to  his  feet,  Judas  caught  his  breath 
with  an  inward  snort  and  started  up,  glar- 
ing inquiringly  at  his  raging  master. 


BEN    AND   JUDAS  4I 

"  Yer  jes'  go  to  that  watermillion  patch 
and  git  to  yer  hoein'  of  them  vines  mighty 
fast,  er  I  '11  whale  enough  hide  off' m  yer 
to  half-sole  my  boots,  yer  lazy,  good-fer- 
nothin',  low-down,  sleepy-headed,  snorin', 
flop-yeared" —  He  hesitated,  rummaged 
in  his  memory  for  yet  another  adjective. 
Meantime,  Judas  had  scrambled  up  un- 
steadily, and  was  saying,  "Yah  sah,  yah 
sah,"  as  fast  as  ever  he  could,  and  bowing 
apologetically  while  his  hands  performed 
rapid  deprecatory  gestures. 

"  Move  off,  I  say !  "  thundered  Ben. 

Chawm,  with  his  tail  between  his  legs, 
followed  Judas,  who  went  in  search  of  his 
hoe,  and  soon  after  the  negro  was  heard 
singing  a  camp-meeting  song  over  in  the 
melon  patch :  — 

"  Ya-a-as,  my  mother  's  over  yander, 
Ya-a-as,  my  mother 's  over  yander, 
Ya-a-as,  my  mother  's  over  yander, 
On  de  Oder  sho'." 

To  any  casual  observer  who  for  a  series 


42  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

of  years  had  chanced  now  and  again  to  see 
these  twain,  it  must  have  appeared  that 
Ben  Wilson's  chief  aim  in  life  was  to 
storm  at  Judas,  and  that  Judas,  not  daring 
to  respond  in  kind  directly  to  the  voluble 
raging  of  his  master,  lived  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  singing  religious  songs  and  heap- 
ing maledictions  on  Bolus,  his  mule.  If 
Ben  desired  his  horse  saddled  and  brought 
to  him,  he  issued  the  order  somewhat  as 
follows  :  — 

"  Judas  !  Hey  there,  ye  ole  hump- 
backed scamp !  How  long  air  ye  a-goin' 
to  be  a-fetchin'  me  that  boss  ?  Hurry  up ! 
Step  lively,  er  I  '11  tie  ye  up  an'  jest  whale 
the  whole  skin  off'm  ye !  Trot  lively,  I 
say!" 

Really,  what  did  Judas  care  if  Ben  spoke 
thus  to  him?  The  master  never  had  struck 
the  slave  in  anger  since  the  days  when 
they  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  their  childish 
fisticuffs.  These  threats  were  the  merest 
mouthing,  and  Judas  knew  it  very  well. 


BEN    AND   JUDAS  43 

"Yah,  dar!  Yo'  Bolus!  yo'  ole  rib- 
nosed,  so'-eyed,  knock-kneed,  pigeon-toed 
t'ief !  I  jes'  wa'  yo'  out  wid  er  fence-rail, 
ef  yo'  don'  step  pow'ful  libely  now;  sho's 
yo'  bo'n  I  jest  will !  " 

This  was  the  echo  sent  back  from  the 
rickety  stables  by  Judas  to  the  ears  of  his 
master,  who  sat  smoking  his  short  pipe  on 
the  sunken  veranda  under  his  vine  and 
close  to  his  gnarled  fig-tree.  The  voice  was 
meant  to  sound  very  savage ;  but  in  spite 
of  Judas  it  would  be  melodious  and  unim- 
pressive, a  mere  echo  and  nothing  more, — 
vox,  et  prceterea  nihil. 

Ben  always  chuckled  reflectively  when 
he  heard  Judas  roaring  like  that.  He 
could  not  have  said  just  why  he  chuckled ; 
perhaps  it  was  mere  force  of  habit. 

"  Dad  blast  that  fool  nigger  !  "  he  would 
mutter  below  his  breath.  "  Puts  me  in 
mind  of  a  hongry  mule  a-brayin'  fer  fodder. 
I  '11  skin  'im  alive  fer  it  yet." 

"  Confoun'  Mars'  Ben  !    Better  keep  he 


44  BEN    AND   JUDAS 

ole  mouf  shet,"  Judas  would  growl ;  but 
neither  ever  heard  the  side  remarks  of  the 
other.  Indeed,  in  a  certain  restricted  and 
abnormal  way  they  were  very  tender  of 
each  other's  feelings.  The  older  they  grew 
the  nearer  came  these  two  men  together. 
It  was  as  if,  setting  out  from  widely  sepa- 
rated birthrights,  they  had  journeyed  to- 
wards the  same  end,  and  thus,  their  paths 
converging,  they  were  at  last  to  lie  down 
in  graves  dug  side  by  side. 

But  no  matter  if  their  cradle  was  a  com- 
mon one,  and  notwithstanding  that  their 
footsteps  kept  such  even  time,  Ben  was 
master,  Judas  slave.  They  were  differen- 
tiated at  this  one  point,  and  at  another, 
the  point  of  color,  irrevocably,  hopelessly. 
As  other  differences  were  sloughed;  as 
atom  by  atom  their  lines  blended  together; 
as  strange  attachments,  like  the  feelers 
of  vines,  grew  between  them ;  and  as  the 
license  of  familiarity  took  possession  of 
them  more  and  more,  the  attitude  of  the 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  45 

master  partook  of  tyranny  in  a  greater  de- 
gree. I  use  the  word  "  attitude,"  because 
it  expresses  precisely  my  meaning.  Ben 
Wilson's  tyranny  was  an  attitude,  nothing 
more.  Judas  never  had  seen  the  moment 
when  he  was  afraid  of  his  master ;  still, 
there  was  a  line  over  which  he  dared  not 
step  —  the  line  of  downright  disobedience. 
In  some  obscure  way  the  negro  felt  the 
weakness  of  the  white  man's  character, 
from  which  a  stream  of  flashing,  rumbling 
threats  had  poured  for  a  lifetime ;  he  knew 
that  Ben  Wilson  was  a  harmless  blusterer, 
who  was  scarcely  aware  of  his  own  windy 
utterances,  and  yet  he  hesitated  to  admit 
that  he  knew  it  —  nay,  he  forced  himself 
to  be  proud  of  his  master's  prodigious  tem- 
peramental expansions.  He  felt  his  own 
importance  in  the  world  barely  below  that 
of  the  man  who  owned  him,  and  deep  in 
his  old  heart  stirred  the  delicious  dream  of 
freedom.  What  a  dream  !  Amorphous  as 
a  cloud,  and  rosy  as  ever  morning  vapor 


46  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

was,  it  informed  his  soul  with  vague,  haunt- 
ing perfumes  and  nameless  strains  of  song. 
Strange  that  so  crude  a  being  could  absorb 
such  an  element  into  the  innermost  tis- 
sues of  his  life!  Judas  had  a  conscience, 
rudimentary  indeed,  but  insistent,  which 
gnawed  him  frightfully  at  times ;  not  for 
stealing,  —  he  was  callous  to  that,  —  but 
for  rebellion,  which  he  could  not  cast  out 
of  him  entirely.  Occasionally  he  solilo- 
quized :  — 

"  Ef  I  could  jest  be  de  mars'  erwhile 
an'  Mars'  Ben  be  de  nigger,  bress  de  good 
Lor',  but  would  n't  I  jest  mor'  'n  mek  'im 
bounce  erroun'  one  time !  Sorty  fink  I  'd 
wake  'im  up  afore  day,  an'  would  n't  I  cuss 
'im  an'  'buse  'im  an'  rah  an'  cha'ge  at  'im 
tell  he  know  'zactly  how  it  was  hese'f! 
Yo'  may  say  so,  honey,  dat  yo'  may !  " 

Following  treasonable  thoughts  like 
these  came  bitings  by  the  hot  teeth  of  the 
poor  slave's  conscience,  all  the  deeper  and 
cruder  by  contrast  with  the  love  forever 


BEN    AND   JUDAS  4/ 

upgushing  to  be  lavished  on  his  truly  in- 
dulgent, but  strongly  exasperating  master. 

"  Lor',  do  forgib  po'  ole  Judas,"  he 
would  pray,  "  kase  he  been  er  jokin'  ter  he- 
se'f  'bout  er  pow'ful  ticklish  ci'cumstance, 
sho'  's  yo'  bo'n.  Lor' ;  an'  he  no  business 
trompin'  roun'  er  ole  well  in  de  night.  Git 
he  neck  broke,  sho' !  " 

Notwithstanding  conscience  and  prayer, 
however,  the  thought  grew  clearer  and 
waxed  more  vigorous  in  the  heart  of  Ju- 
das as  the  years  slipped  by  and  Ben  gradu- 
ally increased  his  scolding.  The  more  he 
fought  it  the  closer  clung  to  him  the  vision 
of  that  revolution  which  would  turn  him 
on  top  and  Ben  below,  if  but  for  a  few  mo- 
ments of  delirious  triumph. 

"Lor',  but  wouldn't  Mars'  Ben  hate 'r 
hab  dis  ole  nigger  er  cha'gin'  an'  er  rantin' 
an'  er  yellin'  at  'im,  an'  jest  er  cussin'  'im 
like  de  berry  debil  fo'  eberyt'ing  'at 's 
mean,  an'  de  sweat  jest  er  rollin'  off  'm,  an' 
'im  jest   eberlastin'ly  an'  outlandishly   er 


48  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

gibbin'  'im  de  limmer  jaw  fo'  he  laziness 
an'  he  dog-gone  general  no  'countness ! 
Ef  dat  would  n't  be  satisfactionel  ter  dis 
yer  darkey,  den  I  dunno  nuffin'  't  all  'bout 
it.  Dat 's  his  way  er  doin'  me,  an'  it  seem 
lak  my  time  orter  be  comin'  erlong  poorty 
soon  ter  do  'im  dat  er  way  er  leetle,  debil 
take  de  nigger  ef  it  don't !  " 

In  good  truth,  however,  Judas  had  no 
right  to  complain  of  hard  work;  he  did 
not  earn  his  salt.  A  large  part  of  the  time 
he  and  his  master  occupied  with  angling 
in  the  rivulet  hard  by,  wherein  catfish  were 
the  chief  game.  Side  by  side  on  the  sandy 
bank  of  the  stream  the  twain  looked  like 
two  frogs  ready  to  leap  into  the  water,  so 
expectant  and  eager  were  their  wrinkled 
faces  and  protruding  eyes ;  so  com.ically 
set  akimbo  their  arms  and  legs.  With 
little  art  they  cast  and  recast  their  clumsy 
bait  of  bacon-rind,  exchanging  few  words, 
but  enjoying,  doubtless,  a  sense  of  subtile 
companionship  peculiarly  satisfying. 


\  \^ 


-:%^ 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  49 

"Airy  a  bite,  Judas?" 

"  No,  sah." 

"  Too  lazy  to  keep  yer  hook  baited  ? " 

"  No,  sah." 

A  while  of  silence,  the  river  swashing 
dreamily,  the  sunshine  shimmering  far 
along  the  slowly  lapsing  current;  then  Ju- 
das begins  humming  a  revival  tune. 

"  Shet  yer  mouth ;  stop  that  infernal 
howling,  yer  blasted  old  eejit,  er  I  '11  take 
this  yer  fish-pole  an'  I  '11  nat'rally  lam  the 
life  out  of  ye  !  "  storms  the  master.  "  Ye  '11 
scare  all  the  fish  till  they  '11  go  clean  to  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico.  Hain't  ye  got  a  triffin'  of 
sense  left  ? " 

The  slave  sulks  in  silence.  Ten  minutes 
later  Ben  takes  out  a  plug  of  bright,  greasy- 
looking  navy  tobacco,  and  after  biting  off 
a  liberal  chew  says  in  a  very  soft  voice :  — 

"  Here,  Jude,  try  some  of  my  tobacker, 
an'  maybe  yer  luck  '11  change." 

Judas  fills  his  cheek  with  the  comfort- 
ing weed  and  gazes  with  expectant  con- 


50  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

tentment  into  the  stream,  but  the  luck  con- 
tinues much  the  same.  The  wind  may 
blow  a  trifle  sweeter,  fluting  an  old  Pan- 
pipe tune  in  a  half-whisper  through  the 
fringe  of  shining  reeds,  and  the  thrushes 
may  trill  suddenly  a  strange,  soft  phrase 
from  the  dark  foliage  of  the  grove  hard  by; 
still,  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  voices  of 
nature  and  all  unaware  of  their  own  pic- 
turesqueness,  without  a  nibble  to  encour- 
age them,  the  two  white-haired  men  watch 
away  the  golden  afternoon.  At  last,  just 
as  Judas  has  given  up  and  is  winding  his 
line  around  his  pole,  Ben  yanks  out  a 
slimy,  wriggling,  prickly  catfish,  and  his 
round  face  flings  forth  through  its  screen 
of  wrinkles  a  spray  of  sudden  excitement. 
"  Grab  'im,  Judas !  Grab  'im,  ye  lubberly 
old  lout  ye !  What  ye  doin'  a-grinnin'  an' 
a-gazin'  an'  that  fish  a-floppin'  right  back 
—  grab  'im  !  If  ye  do  let  'im  get  away,  I  '11 
break  yer  old  neck  an'  pull  out  yer  back- 
bone —  grab  'im,  I  say !  " 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  5 1 

Judas  scrambles  after  the  fish,  sprawling 
and  grabbing,  while  it  actively  flops  about 
in  the  sand.  It  spears  him  cruelly  till  the 
red  blood  is  spattered  over  his  great  rusty 
black  hands,  but  he  captures  it  finally  and 
puts  a  stick  through  its  gills. 

On  many  and  many  an  afternoon  they 
trudged  homeward  together  in  the  soften- 
ing light,  Judas  carrying  both  rods  on  his 
shoulder,  the  bait-cups  in  his  hands,  and 
the  string  of  fish,  if  there  were  any,  dangling 
somewhere  about  his  squat  person.  The 
black  man  might  have  been  the  incarnate 
shadow  of  the  white  one,  so  much  were 
they  alike  in  everything  but  color.  Even 
to  a  slight  limp  of  the  left  leg,  their  move- 
ments were  the  same.  Each  had  a  pecu- 
liar fashion  of  setting  his  right  elbow  at  a 
certain  angle,  and  of  elevating  slightly  the 
right  shoulder.  Precisely  alike  sat  their 
well-worn  straw  hats  far  over  on  the  back 
of  their  heads. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  i860  that  Ben 


52  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

took  the  measles  and  came  near  to  death. 
Judas  nursed  his  master  with  a  faithfulness 
that  knew  not  the  shadow  of  abatement 
until  the  disease  had  spent  its  force  and 
Ben  began  to  convalesce.  With  the  turn 
of  the  tide  which  bore  him  back  from  the 
shore  of  death  the  master  recovered  his 
tongue,  and  grew  refractory  and  abusive  in- 
versely as  the  negro  was  silent  and  obedi- 
ent. He  exhausted  upon  poor  Judas,  over 
and  over  again,  the  vocabulary  of  vitupera- 
tive epithets  at  his  command.  When  Ben 
was  quite  well  Judas  lay  down  with  the 
disease. 

"  A  nigger  with  the  measles  !  Well,  I  '11 
be  dern  !  Ye 're  gone,  Jude,  —  gone  fer 
sure.  Measles  nearly  always  kills  a  nigger, 
an'  ye  mought  es  well  begin  ter  wall  up 
yer  eyes  an'  wiggle  yer  toes." 

Ben  uttered  these  consoling  words  as  he 
entered  his  old  slave's  cabin  and  stood  be- 
side the  low  bed.  "  Not  much  use  ter  do 
anythin'  fer  ye's  I  know  of  —  bound   ter 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  53 

go  this  time.  Don't  ye  feel  a  sort  of  dyin' 
sensation  in  yer  blamed  old  bones  al- 
ready ? " 

But  Judas  was  nursed  by  his  master  as 
a  child   by  its  mother.     Never  was  man 
|l;  better   cared   for   night   and    day.     Ben's 

whole  life  for  the  time  was  centred  in  the 
one  thought  of  saving  the  slave.  In  this 
he  was  absolutely  unselfish  and  at  last 
successful. 

As  Judas  grew  better,  after  the  crisis 
was  passed,  he  did  not  fail  to  follow  his 
master's  example  and  make  himself  as 
troublesome  as  possible.  Nothing  was 
good  enough  for  him ;  none  of  his  food 
was  properly  prepared  or  served,  his  bed 
was  not  right,  he  wanted  water  from  a  cer- 
tain distant  spring,  he  grumbled  at  Ben 
without  reason,  and  grew  more  abusive 
and  personal  daily.  At  last,  one  afternoon 
Ben  came  out  of  the  cabin  with  a  very 
peculiar  look  on  his  face.  He  stopped  as 
he  left  the  threshold,  and  with  his  hands  in 


54  BEN    AND   JUDAS 

his  trousers'  pockets  and  his  head  thrown 
back  he  whistled  a  low,  gentle  note. 

"  Well,  I  '11  everlastin'ly  jest  be  dad 
burned !  "  he  exclaimed.  Then  he  puffed 
out  his  wrinkled  cheeks  till  they  looked 
like  two  freckled  bladders.  "  Who  'd  'a' 
thought  it ! "  He  chuckled  long  and  low, 
looking  down  at  his  boots  and  then  up  at 
the  sky.  "  Cussed  me !  Cussed  me  !  The 
blame  old  rooster  a-cussin'  me !  Don't 
seem  possible,  but  he  did  all  the  same. 
Gamest  nigger  I  ever  seen !  " 

It  must  have  been  a  revelation  to  the 
master  when  the  old  slave  actually  swore 
at  him  and  cursed  him  vigorously.  Ben 
went  about  chuckling  retrospectively  and 
muttering  to  himself:  — 

"  The  old  coon  he  cussed  me  !" 

Next  day  for  dinner  Judas  had  chicken 
pie  and  dumplings,  his  favorite  pot,  and 
Ben  brought  some  old  peach  brandy  from 
the  cellar  and  poured  it  for  him  with  his 
own  hands. 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  55 

In  due  time  the  negro  got  well  and  the 
two  resumed  their  old  life,  a  little  feebler, 
a  trifle  more  stoop  in  their  shoulders,  their 
voices  huskier,  but  yet  quite  as  happy  as 
before. 

The  watermelon  -  patch  has  ever  been 
the  jewel  on  the  breast  of  the  Georgia  plan- 
tation. "  What  is  home  without  a  water- 
melon?" runs  the  well-known  phrase,  and 
in  sooth  what  cool,  delicious  suggestions 
run  with  it!  Ben  and  Judas  each  had  a 
patch,  year  in  and  year  out.  Not  that  Ben 
ever  hoed  in  his;  but  he  made  Judas  keep 
it  free  of  weeds.  Here  was  a  source  of 
trouble ;  for  invariably  the  negro's  patch 
was  better,  the  melons  were  the  larger  and 
finer.  Scold  and  storm  and  threaten  as 
he  might,  Ben  could  not  change  this,  nor 
could  he  convince  his  slave  that  there  was 
anything  at  all  strange  in  the  matter. 

"  How  I  gwine  fin'  out  'bout  what  mek 
yo'  watermillions  so  runty  an'  so  scrunty  ? " 
Judas  exclaimed.    "  Hain't  I  jest  hoed  'em 


56  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

an'  ploughed  'em  an'  took  care  ob  em  an' 
try  ter  mek  'em  do  somefin'  ?  But  dey  jest 
kinder  wommux  an'  squommux  erlong  an' 
don't  grow  wof  er  dern !  I  jest  sw'a'  I 
can't  holp  it,  Mars'  Ben,  e£  yo'  got  no  luck 
erbout  yo'  nohow !  Watermillions  grows 
ter  luck,  not  ter  de  hoe." 

"  Luck  !  Luck  !  "  bawled  Ben,  shaking 
his  fist  at  the  negro.  "  Luck !  yer  old 
lump  er  lamp-black —  yer  old,  lazy,  sneakin' 
scamp  !  I  '11  show  ye  about  luck !  Ef  I 
don't  have  a  good  patch  of  watermillions 
next  year  I  '11  skin  ye  alive,  see  ef  I  don't, 
ye  old  villain  ye  !" 

It  was  one  of  Ben's  greatest  luxuries  to 
sit  on  the  top  rail  of  the  worm-fence  which 
inclosed  the  melon-patch,  his  own  partic- 
ular patch,  and  superintend  the  hoeing 
thereof.  To  Judas  this  was  a  bitter  ordeal, 
and  its  particular  tang  grew  more  offensive 
year  by  year,  as  the  half-smothered  longing 
to  be  master,  if  but  for  a  moment,  gripped 
his  imagination  closer  and  closer. 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  57 

"  Ef  I  jest  could  set  up  dah  on  dat  fence 
an'  cuss  'im  while  he  hoed,  an'  ef  I  jest 
could  one  time  see  'im  er  hus'lin'  erroun' 
w'en  I  tole  'im,  dis  nigger  'd  be  ready  ter  die 
right  den.     Lor',  I  'd  give  it  to  'im  good ! " 

Any  observer  a  trifle  sharper  than  Ben 
would  have  read  Judas's  thoughts  as  he 
ruminated  thus ;  but  Ben  was  not  a  student 
of  human  nature,  —  or,  for  that  matter,  any 
other  nature, — and  he  scolded  away  merely 
to  give  vent  to  the  pressure  of  habit. 

One  morning,  when  the  melon  vines 
were  young,  —  it  must  have  been  late  in 
April,  —  Judas  leaned  on  his  hoe-handle, 
and  looking  up  at  Ben,  who  sat  on  the 
fence  top,  as  usual,  smoking  his  short  pipe, 
he  remarked :  — 

*'  Don'  ye  yer  dat  mockin'-bird  er  tee- 
diddlin'  an'  er  too-doodlin',  Mars'  Ben  ? " 

"  I  '11  tee-diddle  an'  too-doodle  ye,  ef  ye 
don't  keep  on  a-hoein',  "  raged  Ben.  "  This 
year  I  'm  bound  ter  have  some  big  melons, 
ef  I  have  ter  wear  ye  out  ter  do  it !  " 


58  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

Judas  sprung  to  work,  and  for  about  a 
minute  hoed  desperately ;  then  looking  up 
again  he  said,  "  De  feesh  alius  bites  bestest 
w'en  de  mockin'-birds  tee-diddles  an'  too- 
doodles  dat  way." 

Such  a  flood  of  abusive  eloquence  as 
Ben  now  let  go  upon  the  balmy  morning 
air  would  have  surprised  and  overwhelmed 
a  less  adequately  fortified  soul  than  that  of 
Judas.  The  negro,  however,  was  well  pre- 
pared for  the  onslaught,  and  received  it 
with  most  industrious  though  indifferent 
silence.  When  the  master  had  exhausted 
both  his  breath  and  his  vocabulary,  the 
negro  turned  up  his  rheumy  eyes  and  sug- 
gested that  "feesh  ain't  gwine  ter  bite  eber' 
day  like  day  '11  bite  ter-day."  This  remark 
was  made  in  a  tone  of  voice  expressive  of 
absent-mindedness,  and  almost  instantly 
the  speaker  added  dreamily,  leaning  on  his 
hoe  again :  — 

"  Time  do  crawl  off  wid  a  feller's  life 
pow'ful  fast,  Mars'  Ben.    Seem  lak  yistyd'y, 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  59 

or  day  'foer  yistyd'y,  'at  we 's  leetle  beety 
boys.  Don'  yo'  'member  w'en  ole  Bolus 
—  dat  fust  Bolus,  I  mean  —  done  went  an' 
kick  de  lof '  outer  de  new  stable  ?  We  's  er 
gittin'  pooty  ole,  Mars'  Ben,  pooty  ole,  ain't 
we?" 

"  Yea,  an'  we  '11  die  an'  be  buried  an' 
resurrected,  ye  old  vagabond  ye,  before  ye 
get  one  hill  of  this  here  patch  hoed!" 
roared  Ben.  Judas  did  not  move,  but,  wag- 
ging his  head  in  a  dreamy  way,  said :  — 

"  I  'members  one  time  "  —  here  he  chuc- 
kled softly  —  "I  'members  one  time  w'en 
we  had  er  fight  an'  I  whirped  yo' ;  made 
yo'  yelp  out  an'  say  ''Nough,  'nough! 
Take  'im  off! '  an'  Moses,  how  I  wus  er 
linkin'  it  ter  yo'  wid  bof  fists  ter  onct!  Dose 
yo'  rickermember  dat.  Mars'  Ben  ?  " 

Ben  remembered.  It  was  when  they 
were  little  children,  before  Judas  had  found 
out  his  hereditary  limitation,  and  before 
Ben  had  dreamed  of  asserting  the  supe- 
riority inherent  in  his    blood.     Somehow 


60  BEN    AND   JUDAS 

the  retrospect  filled  the  master's  vision  in- 
stantly with  a  sort  of  Indian-summer  haze 
of  tenderness.  He  forgot  to  scold.  For 
some  time  there  was  silence,  save  that  the 
mocking-bird  poured  forth  a  song  as  rich 
and  plaintive  as  any  ever  heard  by  Sappho 
under  the  rose-bannered  garden  walls  of 
Mitylene;  then  Judas,  with  sudden  energy, 
exclaimed :  — 

"  Mars'  Ben,  yo'  nebber  did  whirp  me, 
didyo'.?" 

Ben,  having  lapsed  into  retrospective 
distance,  did  not  heed  the  negro's  interro- 
gation, but  sat  there  on  the  fence  with  his 
pipe-stem  clamped  between  his  teeth.  He 
was  smiling  in  a  mild,  childish  way. 

"  No,"  added  Judas,  answering  his  own 
question  —  "  no,  yo'  nebber  whirped  me  in 
yo'  life;  but  I  whirped  yo'  onct  like  de 
berry  debil,  did  n't  I,  Mars'  Ben  }  " 

Ben's  hat  was  far  back  on  his  head,  and 
his  thin,  white  hair  shone  like  silver  floss 
on  his  wrinkled  forehead,  —  the  expression 


BEN  AND   JUDAS  6l 

of  his  face  that  of  silly  delight  in  a  barren 
and  commonplace  reminiscence. 

"  Mars'  Ben,  I  wants  ter  ax  one  leetle 
fabor  ob  yo'." 

The  master  clung  to  his  distance  and  his 
dream. 

"  Hey  dar !  Mars'  Ben ! " 

"  Well,  what  yer  want,  yer  old  scare- 
crow ? "  inquired  Ben,  pulling  himself  to- 
gether and  yawning  so  that  he  dropped  his 
pipe,  which  Judas  quickly  restored  to  him. 

"  Well,  Mars'  Ben,  't  ain't  much  w'at  I 
wants,  but  I 's  been  er  wantin'  it  seem  lak 
er  thousan'  years." 

Ben  began  to  look  dreamy  again. 

"  I  wants  ter  swap  places  wid  yo'.  Mars' 
Ben,  dat  's  w'at  I  wants,"  continued  Judas, 
speaking  rapidly,  as  if  forcing  out  the 
words  against  heavy  pressure  of  restraint. 
"  I  wants  ter  set  up  dah  on  dat  fence,  an' 
yo'  git  down  yer  an'  I  cuss  yo',  an'  yo'  jest 
hoe  like  de  debil  —  dat 's  w'at  I  wants." 

It  was  a  slow  process  by  which  Judas  at 


62  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

last  forced  upon  his  master's  comprehen- 
sion the  preposterous  proposition  for  a 
temporary  exchange  of  situations.  Ben 
could  not  understand  it  fully  until  it  had 
been  insinuated  into  his  mind  particle  by 
particle,  so  to  speak;  for  the  direct  method 
failed  wholly,  and  the  wily  old  African 
resorted  to  subtile  suggestion  and  elusive 
supposititious  illustration  of  his  desire. 

"  We  's  been  er  libin'  tergedder  lo !  des 
many  ye'rs,  Mars'  Ben,  an'  did  I  eber  'fuse 
ter  do  anyfing  'at  yo'  axed  me  ?  No,  sah, 
I  neber  did.  Sort  er  seem  lak  yo'  mought 
do  jest  dis  one  leetle  'commodation  fo' 
me." 

Ben  began  to  grin  in  a  sheepish,  half- 
fascinated  way  as  the  proposition  gradually 
took  hold  of  his  imagination.  How  would 
it  feel  to  be  a  "nigger  "  and  have  a  master 
over  him  ?  What  sort  of  sensation  would 
it  afford  to  be  compelled  to  do  implicitly 
the  will  of  another,  and  that  other  a  queru- 
lous  and   conscienceless   old   sinner   like 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  6$ 

Judas  ?  The  end  of  it  was  that  he  slid 
down  from  his  perch  and  took  the  hoe, 
while  Judas  got  up  and  sat  on  the  fence. 

"Han'  me  dat  pipe,"  was  the  first  per- 
emptory order. 

Ben  winced,  but  gave  up  the  coveted 
nicotian  censer. 

"  Now,  den,  yo'  flop-yeared,  bandy- 
shanked,  hook  nosed,  freckle-faced,  wall- 
eyed, double-chinned,  bald-headed,  hump- 
shoul'ered  "  — 

"  Come,  now,  Judas,"  Ben  interrupted, 
"  I  won't  Stan'  no  sech  langwidges  "  — 

"  Hoi'  on  dah.  Mars'  Ben,"  cried  Judas 
in  an  injured  tone.  "Yo'  p'omised  me 
yo'  'd  do  it,  an'  I  knows  yo'  's  not  gwine 
back  on  yo'  wo'd ;  no  Wilson  eber  do  dat." 

Ben  was  abashed.  It  was  true  no  Wil- 
son ever  broke  a  promise.  The  Wilsons 
were  men  of  honor. 

"  Well,  fire  away,"  he  said,  falling  to 
work  again.     "  Fire  away !  " 

"  Hussle  up,  dah  !    Hussle  up,  yo'  lazy 


64  BEN   AND  JUDAS 

ole  vagabon'  yo',  er  I  '11  git  down  f'om 
heah,  an'  I  '11  w'ar  out  ebery  hic'ry  sprout 
in  de  county  on  yo'  ole  rusty  back !  Git 
erlong  !  —  hurry  up  !  —  faster !  Don'  yo' 
heah  ?  Ef  I  do  come  down  dah  I  '11  jes' 
nat 'rally  comb  yo'  head  tell  ebery  ha'r  on 
it  '11  sw'ar  de  day  ob  judgment  done  come ! 
I  '11  wa'm  yo'  jacket  tell  de  dus'  er  comin' 
out'n  it  '11  look  lak  a  sto'm-cloud !  Wiggle 
faster,  er  I  '11  yank  out  yo'  backbone  an' 
mek  er  trace-chain  out'n  it !  Don'  yo'  heah 
me,  Ben?" 

Ben  heard  and  obeyed.  Never  did  hoe 
go  faster,  never  was  soil  so  stirred  and  pul- 
verized. The  sweat  sprung  from  every 
pore  of  the  man's  skin,  it  trickled  over  his 
face  and  streamed  from  his  chin,  it  satu- 
rated his  clothes. 

Judas  was  intoxicated  with  delight ; 
almost  delirious  with  the  sensation  of 
freedom  and  masterhood.  His  eloquence 
increased  as  the  situation  affected  his 
imagination,  and  his  words  tumbled  forth 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  65 

in  torrents.  Not  less  was  Ben  absorbed 
and  carried  away.  He  was  a  slave,  Judas 
was  his  master,  the  puppet  must  wriggle 
when  the  owner  pulled  the  strings.  He 
worked  furiously.  Judas  forgot  to  smoke 
the  pipe,  but  held  it  in  his  hand  and  made 
all  sorts  of  gestures  with  it. 

"Hit  dem  clods!  Mash  'em  fine!"  he 
screamed.  "  Don'  look  up,  yo'  ole  poky 
tarrypin  yo'!  Ef  yo'  does  I  '11  wommux  de 
hide  off' m  yo'  blamed  ole  back  faster  'n 
forty-seben  shoemakers  kin  peg  it  on  ag'in ! 
Hussle,  I  tole  yo',  er  I  '11  jest  wring  yo' 
neck  an'  tie  yo'  years  in  er  hard  knot !  Yo' 
heah  me  now,  Ben  ?  " 

This  was  bad  enough,  but  not  the  worst, 
for  Judas  used  many  words  and  phrases 
not  permissible  in  print.  He  spared  no 
joint  of  his  master's  armor,  he  left  no  vul- 
nerable point  unassailed.  The  accumulated 
riches  of  a  lifetime  spent  in  collecting  a  pic- 
turesque vocabulary,  and  the  stored  force 
of  nearly  sixty  years  given  to  private  prac- 


66  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

tice  in  using  it,  now  served  him  a  full  turn. 
In  the  thickest  shower  of  the  negro's 
mingled  threats,  commands,  and  maledic- 
tions, however,  Ben  quit  work,  and,  leaning 
on  his  hoe,  panted  rapidly.  He  gazed  up 
at  Judas  pathetically  and  said:  — 

"  How  that  mockin'-bird  does  tee-diddle 
an'  too-doodle ! " 

Judas  actually  stopped  short  in  the  mid 
career  of  his  eloquence,  and  Ben  added :  — 

"  Never  see  sich  signs  for  feesh  a-bitin'; 
did  you,  Judas  ?  " 

The  charm  was  broken,  the  farce  was 
ended.  A  little  later  the  two  old  men 
might  have  been  seen  with  their  bait-cups 
and  fishing-poles  in  their  hands  toddling 
along  down  the  slope  to  the  rivulet,  the 
white  leading,  the  black  following.  They 
were  both  rather  abstracted,  it  appeared, 
for  each  cast  in  his  hook  without  any 
bacon  rind  on  it,  and  sat  on  the  stream's 
bank  all  the  rest  of  the  forenoon  in  blissful 
expectancy  of  an  impossible  nibble. 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  6^ 

One  good  came  of  the  little  episode  at 
the  melon-patch.  The  vine  around  whose 
roots  Ben  had  plied  the  hoe  with  such 
vigor  thrived  amazingly,  and  in  due  time 
bore  a  watermelon  of  huge  size,  a  grand 
spheroid  as  green  as  emerald  and  as  richly 
soft  in  surface  color  as  the  most  costly  old 
velvet. 

"  Got  de  twin  ob  it  down  dah  in  my 
patch,"  said  Judas  ;  "  jestes  much  like  it  es 
one  bean 's  like  anoder  bean.  Yo'  orter 
come  down  an'  see  it.  Mars  Ben." 

Ben  went,  and  sure  enough,  there  was  a 
melon  just  the  duplicate  of  his  own.  Of 
course,  however,  he  claimed  that  he  saw 
some  indices  of  inferiority  in  Judas's  fruit, 
but  he  could  n't  just  point  them  out  —  pos- 
sibly the  rind  was  not  as  healthy-looking, 
he  thought,  and  then  the  stem  appeared  to 
be  shriveling.  Judas,  for  his  part,  was 
quite  sure  that  his  master's  melon  would 
not  '*  sweeten  up  "  as  his  would,  and  that  it 
would  be  found  lacking  in   the  "jawlee- 


68  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

ciousness  "  and  that  "  fo'-de-Lor'-sake-hand- 
me-some-moreness "  so  characteristic  of 
those  of  his  own  raising. 

Ben's  pride  in  his  melon  matured  and 
ripened  at  the  same  time  with  the  maturing 
and  ripening  of  that  wonderful  globule  of 
racy  pulp  and  juice  whose  core  he  longed 
to  see.  After  so  many  failures,  here  at  last 
was  his  triumph.  There  was  a  certain  dan- 
ger connected  with  plucking  this  melon. 
It  was  of  a  variety  locally  called  "ice-rind" 
on  account  of  the  thickness  of  the  outer 
part  or  shell  which  made  it  very  difificult  to 
know  when  it  was  ripe,  and  so  Ben  dreaded 
to  act.  Every  evening  in  the  latest  dusk 
of  twilight  he  would  go  out  and  lean  over 
the  patch  fence  to  have  a  darkling  view  of 
his  treasure,  which  thus  seen  was  mightily 
magnified. 

When  the  moment  of  sacrifice  had  come, 
Ben  actually  shrunk  from  the  task  of  pluck- 
ing that  melon.  He  leaned  on  the  fence 
until  it  was  quite  dark  and  until  the  moon 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  69 

had  begun  to  show  in  the  east  before  he 
bethought  him  that  that  night  was  Judas 's 
birth-night,  and  then  a  bright  idea  came  to 
him.  He  would  take  the  melon  to  the  old 
slave's  cabin  and  they  would  have  a  feast. 
But  when  he  had  climbed  over  the  fence 
and  had  stooped  above  the  huge  dusky 
sphere,  his  heart  failed  him,  and  at  the 
same  time  another  thought  struck  him  with 
great  force.  He  straightened  himself  up, 
placed  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and  chuckled. 
Just  the  thing !  The  best  joke  on  Judas ! 
He  would  go  to  the  negro's  patch,  steal  his 
big  melon,  and  share  it  with  him  on  the 
following  day. 

His  own  melon  he  would  keep  a  few 
days  longer  to  be  sure  that  it  had  ripened. 
A  very  simple  proceeding,  without  a 
thought  of  dishonor  in  it. 

It  was  as  beautiful  and  balmy  a  midsum- 
mer night  as  ever  fell  upon  the  world. 
Ben  felt  its  soft  influence  in  his  old  blood 
as   he   toddled   surreptitiously   along    the 


70  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

path  leading  through  a  little  wood  to  Ju- 
das's  cabin  and  patch.  He  was  picturing 
in  his  mind  how  foolish  Judas  would  look 
and  how  beaten  he  would  feel  when  he 
found  out  that  he  had  been  feasting  on  his 
own  big  melon.  One  might  have  seen  by 
the  increasing  light  of  the  moon  that  Ben's 
trelliswork  of  facial  wrinkles  could  scarcely 
hold  in  the  laughing  glee  that  was  in  him, 
and  his  eyes  twinkled  while  his  mouth  drew 
itself  on  to  a  set,  suppressed  smile.  Chawm 
trotted  along  silently  at  Ben's  heels,  his 
tail  drooping  and  his  ears  hanging  limp. 
In  the  distance,  amid  the  hills,  an  owl  was 
hooting  dolefully,  but  the  little  wood  was 
as  silent  as  the  grave.  Suddenly  Ben  heard 
a  footfall  coming  up  the  path,  and  he 
slipped  into  the  bushes  just  in  time  to  let 
Judas  go  shuffling  by  all  unaware. 

"  The  blamed  old  rooster,"  he  said  to 
himself  in  a  tender,  affectionate  whisper. 
"  The  blamed  old  rooster !  I  wonder  what 
he 's  a-thinkin'  about  jest  now  ?  " 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  71 

Chawm  slipped  out  and  fell  noiselessly 
behind  Judas,  following  him  on  towards  the 
mansion.  Ben  chuckled  with  deep  satis- 
faction as  he  climbed  over  into  Judas's 
patch  and  laid  hands  on  the  negro's  large 
melon.  What  a  typical  thief  he  appeared 
as  he  hurried  furtively  along,  stooping  low 
with  his  ill-gotten  load,  his  crooked  shadow 
dancing  vaguely  beside  him !  Over  the 
fence  he  toiled  with  difficulty,  the  melon 
was  so  heavy  and  slippery ;  then  along  the 
path.  Once  in  the  shadowy  wood,  he  laid 
down  his  burden  and  wiped  his  dewy  face 
with  his  sleeve.  He  did  not  realize  how 
excited  he  was  ;  it  was  the  first  time  in  all 
his  life  that  he  had  ever  stolen  anything 
even  in  fun.  Every  little  sound  startled 
him  and  made  him  pant.  He  felt  as  if 
running  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him 
would  be  the  richest  of  all  luxuries. 

When  again  he  picked  up  the  melon  and 
resumed  his  way  he  found  his  heart  flutter- 
ing and  his  limbs  weak,  but  he  hurried  on. 


72  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

Suddenly  he  halted,  with  a  black  appari- 
tion barring  the  path  before  him. 

"Judas!  you  old  coon!" 

"  Mars'  Ben  !  " 

They  leaned  forward  and  glared  at  each 
other. 

"  Mars'  Ben  !  Yo'  been  er  stealin'  my 
watermillion !  " 

"Judas!  You  thieven' old  rooster !  You 
've  stole"  — 

Their  voices  blended,  and  such  a  mix- 
ture !  The  wood  resounded.  They  stood 
facing  each  other,  as  much  alike  as  dupli- 
cates in  everything  save  color,  each  clasp- 
ing in  his  arms  the  other's  watermelon.  It 
was  a  moment  of  intense  surprise,  of  volu- 
ble swearing,  of  picturesque  posturing; 
then  followed  a  sudden  collapse  and  down 
fell  both  great,  ripe,  luscious  spheres  with 
a  dull,  heavy  bump,  breaking  open  on  the 
ground  and  filling  the  air  with  a  spray  of 
sweet  juice  and  the  faint  luxuriant  aroma 
so   dear    to    Georgian    nostrils.     Chawm 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  f3 

stepped  forward  and  sniffed  idly  and  in- 
differently at  one  of  the  pieces.  A  little 
screech-owl  mewed  plaintively  in  the  bush 
hard  by.  Both  men,  having  exhausted 
themselves  simultaneously,  began  to  sway 
and  tremble,  their  legs  slowly  giving  way 
under  them.  The  spot  of  moonlight  in 
which  they  stood  lent  a  strange  effect  to 
their  bent  and  faltering  forms.  Judas  had 
been  more  or  less  a  thief  all  his  life,  but 
this  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been 
caught  in  the  act,  therefore  he  was  as 
deeply  shocked  as  was  Ben.  Down  they 
sank  until  they  sat  flat  on  the  ground  in 
the  path  and  facing  each  other,  the  broken 
melons  between  them.  Chawm  took  posi- 
tion a  little  to  one  side  and  looked  on 
gravely,  as  if  he  felt  the  solemnity  of  the 
occasion. 

Judas  was  first  to  speak. 

"  Well,  I  jest  be  'sentially  an'  eberlast- 
in'ly"  — 

"  Shet  up !  "  stormed  Ben. 


74  BEN   AND   JUDAS 

They  looked  sheepishly  at  each  other, 
while  Chawm  licked  his  jaws  with  perfunc- 
tory nonchalance.  After  what  seemed  a 
very  long  silence,  Ben  said :  — 

"  Jude,  ax  a  blessin'  afore  we  eats." 

Judas  hesitated. 

"  Did  ye  hear  what  I  was  a-sayin'  for  yer 
to  do  ?  "  inquired  Ben.  "  Ax  a  blessin',  I 
say ! "  The  negro  bowed  his  old  snow- 
fleeced  head  and  prayed :  — 

"Lor',  hab  mercy  on  two  ole  villyans 
an'  w'at  dey  done  steal  f'om  one  'nudder. 
Spaycially,  Lor',  forgib  Mars'  Ben,  kase  he 
rich  an'  free  an'  he  orter  hab  mo'  honah 
'bout  'im  'an  ter  steal  f'om  po'  nigger,  I 
used  to  fink.  Lor',  dat  Mars'  Ben  's  er  mighty 
good  man,  but  seem  lack  yer  lately  he  git- 
tin'  so  on'ry  'at  yo'  '11  be  erbleeged  ter 
hannel  'im  pooty  sabage  ef  he  keep  on. 
Dey  may  be  'nough  good  lef  in  'im  ter  pay 
fer  de  trouble  ob  foolin'  'long  wid  'im,  but 
hit 's  pow'ful  doubtful,  an'  dat 's  er  fac'. 
Lor',  I  don't  advise  yo'  ter  go  much  outer 


BEN   AND   JUDAS  75 

yo'  way  ter  'commodate  sich  er  outdacious 
old  sneak-t'ief  an'  sich  er  "  — 

"  Judas !  "  roared  Ben,  "  yer  jest  stop 
right  now ! " 

"  An'  bress  dese  watermillions  w'at  we  's 
erbout  ter  receib,  amen !  "  concluded  Judas. 
*'  Try  er  piece  er  dis  here  solid  core,  Mars' 
Ben ;  hit  look  mighty  jawleecious." 

And  so  there  in  the  space  of  moonlight 
they  munched,  with  many  watery  mouth- 
ings,  the  sweet  central  hearts  of  the  pil- 
fered fruit.  All  around  them  the  birds 
stirred  in  their  sleep,  rustling  the  leaves 
and  letting  go  a  few  dreamy  chirps.  Over- 
head a  great  rift  uncovered  the  almost 
purple  sky. 

They  did  not  converse  while  they  were 
eating,  but  when  the  repast  was  ended  Ju- 
das apologized  and  explained  in  their  joint 
behalf:  — 

"  Yo'  see.  Mars'  Ben,  I 's  yo'  nigger  an' 
yo'  's  my  marster.  W'at 's  yo's  is  mine,  an' 
w'at's  mine's  yo's;  see?    an'  hit  ain't  no 


76  BEN   AND  JUDAS 

mo'  harm  'an  nothin'  fo'  us  ter  steal  f'om 
one  'nudder.  Lor',  Mars'  Ben,  I  been  er 
knowin'  all  my  life  'at  I  was  er  stealin'  f'om 
yo' ;  but  I  nebber  dream  'at  it  was  yo'  'at 
was  er  takin'  all  er  my  bestest  watermillions 
an'  t'ings.  'Spec'  we 's  'bout  eben  now, 
Mars'  Ben.  Ef  yo 's  a  leetle  bit  ahead  ob 
me  I 's  not  er  keerin' ;  hit 's  all  right." 

So  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  parted 
for  the  night. 

"  Good-night,  Mars'  Ben." 

"  Good-night,  Judas." 

It  would  be  cruel  to  follow  them  farther 
down  the  road  of  life,  for  rheumatism  came, 
and  then  the  war.  Many  an  afternoon  the 
trio,  Ben,  Judas,  and  Chawm,  sat  on  the  old 
veranda  and  listened  to  the  far-off  thunder 
of  battle,  not  fairly  realizing  its  meaning, 
but  feeling  that  in  some  vague  way  it  meant 
a  great  deal.  After  war,  peace.  After 
peace,  reconstruction.  After  reconstruc- 
tion, politics.  Somebody  took  the  trouble 
to  insist  upon  having  Ben  Wilson  go  to 


BEN   AND  JUDAS  77 

the  polls  and  vote.  Of  course  Judas  went 
with  him.  What  a  curious  looking  twain 
they  were,  tottering  along,  almost  side  by 
side  now,  their  limbs  trembling  and  their 
eyes  nearly  blind ! 

"  Got  yer  ticket,  Jude  ?  "  inquired  Ben. 

"  No,  sah,  dat  's  all  right.  Yo'  jest  drap 
one  in,  hit  '11  do  fo'  bofe  ob  us,"  answered 
Judas.     And  it  was  done. 

They  died  a  year  ago.  Their  graves 
are  side  by  side,  and  so  close  together  that 
a  single  slab  might  serve  to  cover  them 
both.  If  I  were  rich  it  should  be  an  im- 
perishable monument,  inscribed  simply:  — 

BEN   AND   JUDAS, 

Aet.  Seventy  Years,  One  Month,  and  Fourteen 

Days. 


HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT 

Where  the  great  line  of  geologic  up- 
heaval, running  down  from  Virginia 
through  North  Carolina,  Tennessee,  and 
Georgia,  finally  breaks  up  into  a  hopeless 
confusion  of  variously  trending  ridges  and 
spurs,  there  is  a  region  of  country  some- 
what north  of  the  centre  of  Alabama,  called 
by  the  inhabitants  thereof  "  The  Sand 
Mounting.""  It  is  a  wild,  out-of-the  way, 
little-known  country,  whose  citizens  have 
kept  alive  in  their  mountain  fastnesses 
nearly  all  that  backwoods  simplicity-  and 
narrowness  of  ambition  peculiar  to  their 
ancestors,  who  came  mostly  from  the  Caro- 
linas,  in  the  early  part  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, following  the  mountain  lines  in  their 
migrations,  as  fish  follow  streams.  They 
are  honest  and  virtuous,  as  mountain  folk 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  79 

usually  are,  rather  frugal  and  simple  than 
industrious  and  enterprising,  knowing  no- 
thing of  books,  and  having  very  indefinite 
information  touching  the  doings  of  the  great 
world  whose  tides  of  action  foam  around 
their  mountain-locked  valleys  like  an  ocean 
around  some  worthless  island.  They  have 
heard  of  railroads,  but  many  of  them  have 
never  seen  one.  They  do  not  take  news- 
papers, they  turn  their  backs  upon  mission- 
aries, and  they  nurse  a  high  disdain  for  the 
clothes  and  ways  of  city  folk.  Most  of 
them  are  farmers  in  a  small  way,  raising  a 
little  corn  and  wheat,  a  "  patch  "  of  cotton 
now  and  then,  a  few  vegetables,  and  a 
great  deal  of  delicious  fruit. 

In  the  days  of  secession  the  men  of 
Sand  Mountain  were  not  zealous  in  the 
Southern  cause,  nor  were  they,  on  the  other 
hand,  willing  to  do  battle  for  the  Union. 
So  it  happened  that  when  the  Confederate 
authorities  began  a  system  of  conscription, 
Sand  Mountain  was  not  a  healthful  place 


8o  HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT 

for  enrolling  officers,  many  of  whom  never 
returned  therefrom  to  report  the  number 
of  eligible  men  found  in  remote  valleys 
and  *'  Pockets." 

One  citizen  of  the  mountain  became  no- 
torious, if  not  strictly  famous,  during  the 
war.  His  name  was  Riley  Hodson,  better 
known  as  Gineral  Hodson,  though  he  had 
never  been  a  soldier.  He  may  have  been 
rather  abnormally  developed  to  serve  as  a 
representative  Sand  Mountain  figure  in 
this  or  any  other  sketch  of  that  region. 
The  reader  may  gather  from  the  following 
outlines  of  Hodson's  character,  drawn  by 
certain  of  his  neighbors,  a  pretty  fair  idea 
of  what  the  picture  would  be  when  filled 
out  and  properly  shaded  and  lighted. 

"  Gineral  Hodson  air  not  jest  ezactly 
what  ye  'd  call  a  contrary  man,  but  he 's  a 
mighty  p'inted  an'  a  orful  sot  in  'is  way  sort 
o'  a  feller,"  said  Sandy  Biddle,  who  stood 
six  feet  two  in  his  home-made  shoes,  and 
weighed  scarcely  one  hundred  and  twenty 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  8l 

pounds,  "  an'  ef  anybody  air  enjoyin'  any 
oncommon  desire  for  a  fight,  he  may  call  on 
the  gineral  with  a  reas'nable  expectation  of 
a-ketchin'  double-barrel  thunder  an'  hair- 
trigger  lightnin'." 

"  He  never  hev  be'n  whirpt,"  observed 
old  Ben  Iley,  himself  the  hero  of  some 
memorable  rough-and-tumble  fights,  "  an' 
he  hev  managed  ter  hev  his  own  way,  in 
spite  o'  'ell  an'  high  water,  all  over  the 
mounting  for  mor'  'n  forty  year  ter  my  sar- 
ting  knowledge." 

"  When  it  come  ter  doctrin',  es  the  scrip- 
ter  p'intedly  do  show  it,  he  kin  preach  all 
round  any  o'  yer  meth'dist  bible-bangers 
'at  ever  I  see,  don't  keer  ef  ye  do  call  'im 
a  Hardshell  an'  a  Forty-gallon,  an'  a'  Iron- 
Jacket  Baptus,"  was  Wes  Beasley's  trib- 
ute ;  "  an'  I  kin  f  urder  say,"  he  added,  cut- 
ting a  quid  from  a  twist  of  Sand  Mountain 
tobacco  and  lodging  it  in  his  jaw,  "  'at  Gin- 
eral Hodson  air  hones',  an'  when  he  air  a 
feller's  frien'  he  air  a  good  un,  an'  when  he 


82  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

don't  like  ye,  then  hit  air  about  time  fer  ye 
ter  git  up  an  brin'le  out'n  the  mounting." 
Turning  from  these  verbal  sketches  to 
look  at  Riley  Hodson  himself,  we  shall 
find  him  leaning  on  the  rickety  little  gate 
in  front  of  his  rambling  log  house.  In 
height  he  is  six  feet  three,  broad-shouldered, 
strong -limbed,  rugged,  grizzled,  harsh- 
faced,  unkempt.  He  "looks  like  the  em- 
bodiment of  obstinacy.  Nor  is  he  out  of 
place  as  a  figure  in  the  landscape  around 
him.  Nature  was  in  no  soft  mood  when 
she  gave  birth  to  Sand  Mountain,  and,  in 
this  particular  spot,  such  labor  as  Riley 
Hodson  had  bestowed  on  its  betterment 
had  rendered  the  offspring  more  unsightly. 
Some  yellowish  clay  fields,  washed  into 
ruts  by  the  mountain  rains,  lay  at  all  sorts 
of  angles  with  the  horizon ;  the  fences 
were  grown  over  with  sassafras  bushes  and 
sour-grape  vines,  and  there  was  as  small 
evidence  of  any  fertility  of  soil  as  there 
was   of   careful   or   even   intelligent   hus- 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  83 

bandry.  It  was  in  the  spring  of  1875,  ten 
years  after  the  close  of  the  war,  that  Riley 
Hodson  leaned  on  that  gate  and  gazed  up 
the  narrow  mountain  trail  at  a  man  com- 
ing down. 

"  Hit  air  a  peddler,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, taking  the  short-stemmed  pipe  from 
his  mouth  with  a  grimace  of  the  most 
dogged  dislike,  —  "hit  air  a  peddler,  an'  ef 
them  weeming  ever  git  ther  eyes  sot  onto 
'im  hit  air  good-by  ter  what  money  I  hev 
on  han',  to  a  dead  sartingty." 

He  opened  the  gate  and  passed  through, 
going  slowly  along  the  trail  to  meet  the 
coming  stranger.  Once  or  twice  he 
glanced  furtively  back  over  his  shoulder  to 
see  if  his  wife  or  daughter  might  chance  to 
be  looking  after  him  from  the  door  of  the 
old  house.  He  walked,  in  the  genuine 
mountain  fashion,  with  long,  loose  strides, 
his  arms  swinging  awkwardly  at  his  sides, 
and  his  head  thrust  forward,  with  his  chin 
elevated  and  his  shoulders  drawn  up.     He 


84  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

soon  came  face  to  face  with  a  young  man 
of  rather  small  stature  and  pleasing  fea- 
tures, who  carried  a  little  pack  on  the  end 
of  a  short  fowling-piece  swung  across  his 
left  shoulder. 

Hodson  had  made  up  his  mind  to  drive 
this  young  adventurer  back,  thinking  him 
an  itinerant  peddler ;  but  a  strange  look 
came  into  the  old  man's  face,  and  he 
stopped  short  with  a  half-frightened  start 
and  a  dumb  gesture  of  awe  and  surprise. 

The  stranger,  David  D'Antinac  by  name, 
and  an  ornithologist  by  profession,  was  a 
little  startled  by  this  sudden  apparition  ; 
for  Riley  Hodson  at  best  was  not  prepos- 
sessing in  appearance,  and  he  glared  so 
strangely,  and  his  face  had  such  an  ashy 
pallor  in  it,  that  the  strongest  heart  might 
have  shrunk  and  trembled  at  confronting 
him  in  a  lonely  mountain  trail. 

"  Well,  ye  blamed  little  rooster !  "  ex- 
claimed Hodson  in  a  breathless  way,  after 
staring  for  a  full  minute. 


HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT  85 

D'Antinac  recoiled  perceptibly,  with 
some  show  of  excitement  in  his  face.  He 
was  well  aware  that  he  was  in  a  region  not 
held  well  in  hand  by  the  law,  and  he  had 
been  told  many  wild  tales  of  this  part  of 
Sand  Mountain. 

"  Ye  blamed  little  rooster !  "  repeated 
the  old  man,  taking  two  or  three  short 
backward  steps,  as  if  half  alarmed  and  half 
meditating  a  sudden  leap  upon  D'Antinac, 
who  now  summoned  voice  enough  to  say : 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  " 

Such  a  smile  as  one  might  cast  upon  the 
dead  —  a  white,  wondering,  fearful  smile 
—  spread  over  Hodson's  face.  It  seemed 
to  D'Antinac  that  this  smile  even  leaped 
from  the  face  and  ran  like  a  ghastly  flash 
across  the  landscape.  He  will  remember 
it  as  long  as  he  lives. 

"W'y,  Dave,  er  thet  you?"  Hodson 
asked,  in  a  harsh,  tremulous  tone,  taking 
still  another  backward  step. 

"  My   name   is   certainly  David,  but  I 


86  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

guess  you  don't  know  me,"  said  D'Anti- 
nac,  with  an  effort  at  an  easy  manner. 

"  Don't  know  ye,  ye  pore  little  rooster ! 
Don't  know  ye  !  W'y,  Dave,  are  ye  come 
ag'in  ?  "  The  old  man  wavered  and  fal- 
tered, as  if  doubtful  whether  to  advance  or 
retreat.  "  Don't  know  ye  ?  "  he  repeated. 
"W'y,  Dave,  don  t  you  know  meF  Hev 
ye  furgot  the  ole  man  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  believe  I 
never  saw  you  before  in  my  life,"  said 
D'Antinac,  lowering  his  little  pack  to  the 
ground  and  leaning  on  his  gun.  "  You 
are  certainly  laboring  under  some  mistake." 

"  Never  seed  me  afore  !  "  cried  Hodson, 
his  voice  showing  a  rising  belligerency. 
"  Ye  blamed  little  rooster,  none  o'  yer  fool- 
in',  fer  I  won't  stand  it.  I  '11  jes  nat'rally 
w'ar  ye  out  ef  ye  come  any  o'  that  air." 

Hodson  now  advanced  a  step  or  two 
with  threatening  gestures.  Quick  as  light- 
ning, D'Antinac  flung  up  his  gun  and 
leveled  it,  his  face  growing  very  pale. 


HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT  8/ 

"  Another  step,"  he  cried  excitedly,  "  and 
1 11  shoot  two  holes  through  you !  " 

Hodson  stopped  and  said  in  a  deprecat- 
ing tone : — 

"  W'y,  Dave,  ye  would  n't  shoot  yer 
daddy,  would  ye,  Dave  ? " 

"  If  you  run  onto  me  I  '11  shoot  you,'' 
was  the  firm  response. 

"  W'y,  ye  blasted  mean  little  rooster !  " 
thundered  Hodson,  and  before  D'Antinac 
in  his  excitement  could  pull  trigger,  the 
old  man  had  him  down  and  was  sitting 
astride  of  him,  as  he  lay  at  full  length  on 
his  back.  "  Now  I  '11  jest  nat'rally  be 
dinged,  Dave,  ef  I  don't  whirp  ever'  last 
striffin  o'  hide  off  n  ye  ef  ye  don't  erhave 
yerself!"  He  had  both  of  D'Antinac's 
arms  clasped  in  one  of  his  great  hands,  and 
was  pressing  them  so  hard  against  the 
young  man's  breast  that  he  could  scarcely 
breathe.  "  Ye  nasty  little  rooster,  a-comin' 
back  an'  a-tryin'  ter  shoot  yer  pore  old 
daddy  fer  nothin'.     I  '11  jest  wear  ye  out 


88  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

an'  half-sole  ye  ag'in  ef  ye  open  yer 
mouth  !  " 

D'Antinac  lay  like  a  mouse  under  the 
paw  of  a  lion.  It  was  quite  impossible 
for  him  to  move.  The  old  man's  weight 
was  enormous. 

"  I  'm  er  great  notion  ter  pound  the  very 
daylights  out'n  ye  afore  I  let  ye  up,"  Hod- 
son  continued.  "  Hit  meks  me  mad  'nuff 
fer  ter  bite  ye  in  two  like  er  tater  an'  jest 
nat'rally  chaw  up  both  pieces,  on'y  ter 
think  'at  ye  'd  deny  yer  own  daddy  what  's 
larruped  ye  many  a  time,  an'  'en  try  ter 
shoot  'im  !  I  'm  teetotally  ershamed  of  ye, 
Dave.     An'  what  '11  yer  mammy  say  ?  " 

D'Antinac  was  possessed  of  a  quick 
mind,  and  he  had  schooled  it  in  the  art 
of  making  the  most  of  every  exigency.  He 
had  been  several  years  in  the  mountain 
regions  of  the  South,  and  had  discovered 
that  the  mountaineers  liked  nothing  bet- 
ter than  a  certain  sort  of  humor,  liberally 
spiced  with  their  peculiar  slang. 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  ^9 

"  Speaking  of  biting  a  tater  in  two,"  he 
ejaculated  rather  breathlessly,  "  reminds 
me  that  I  'm  as  hungry  as  a  sitting  hen. 
Have  you  got  anything  like  a  good  mellow 
iron  wedge  or  a  fried  pine-knot  in  your 
pocket  ?  " 

Hodson's  face  softened  a  little,  and  he 
smiled  again,  in  that  half  ghastly  way,  as 
he  said :  — 

"Ye  dinged  little  rooster!  W'y,  Dave, 
der  ye  know  the  ole  man  now?  Say, 
Dave,  do  ye  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  perfectly ;  never  knew  any 
one  better  in  my  life,"  promptly  responded 
D'Antinac.  "  Your  face  is  quite  familiar, 
I  assure  you.     How  're  the  folks  ? " 

Hodson  chuckled  deep  down  in  his 
throat,  at  the  same  time  somewhat  relax- 
ing his  hold  on  the  young  man's  arms. 

"  Sarah  an'  Mandy  '11  jes  nat'rally  go 
'stracted  over  ye,  Dave,  an'  I  want  ye  ter 
'have  yerself  an'  come  wi'  me  down  ter  the 
house,  like  er  white  boy.     This  here  fool- 


90  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

in'  's  not  gwine  ter  do  ye  no  good.  Ye  've 
got  to  toe  the  mark,  Dave." 

"  Oh,  I'll  behave,"  exclaimed  D'Antinac. 
"  I  '11  do  whatever  you  want  me  to.  I  was 
only  joking  just  now.  Let  me  up;  you're 
mashing  me  as  flat  as  a  flying-squirrel." 

"  Well,  I  don't  whant  ter  hurt  ye,  but 
afore  I  ever  let  ye  up,  ye  must  promerse 
me  one  thing,"  said  Hodson. 

"  What  is  it.?  Quick!  for  you  are  really 
making  jelly  of  me,"  D'Antinac  panted 
forth,  like  Encelados  under  Sicily. 

"  Thet  ye  '11  not  deny  yer  mammy  ner 
Mandy ;  an'  ef  ye  do  deny  'em,  I  '11  jest 
nat'rally  be  blamed  ef  I  don't  whale  yer 
jacket  tell  ye  won't  know  yer  hide  from  a 
meal-sifter.     Do  ye  promerse  .?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  D'Antinac,  though  in  fact 
he  did  not  understand  the  old  mountain- 
eer's meaning.  The  young  man's  mother 
had  died  in  his  babyhood,  and  he  felt  safe 
in  promising  never  to  deny  her. 

Hodson  got  up,  leaving  D'Antinac  free 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  QI 

to  rise ;  but  the  old  fellow  got  possession 
of  the  gun  and  pack,  and  then  said  :  — 

"  Now  come  'long  home,  Dave,  an'  les' 
see  what  yer  mammy  an'  Mandy  '11  say  ter 
ye.  Come  'long,  I  say,  an'  don't  stan'  ther, 
a-gawpin'  like  er  runt  pig  in  er  peach  or- 
chard. I  do  'spise  er  fool.  Come  on,  dad 
ding  it,  an'  'have  yerself." 

It  is  probable  that  no  man  was  ever 
more  bewildered  than  D'Antinac  was  just 
then ;  in  fact,  he  could  not  command  him- 
self sufficiently  to  do  more  than  stand 
there,  after  he  had  risen,  and  stupidly 
stare  at  Hodson.  The  latter,  however,  did 
not  parley,  but  seizing  one  of  the  young 
man's  arms  in  a  vise-like  grip,  he  began 
jerking  him  along  the  trail  toward  the 
house. 

It  was  a  subject  fit  for  an  artist's  study, 
the  old  giant  striding  down  the  path,  with 
the  young  man  following  at  a  trot.  D'An- 
tinac could  not  resist.  He  felt  the  insig- 
nificance of  his  physique,  and  also  of  his 


92  HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT 

will,  when  compared  with  those  of  this  old 
man  of  the  mountain. 

"  I  bet  yer  mammy  '11  know  ye,  soon  es 
she  lays  eyes  onter  ye,  spite  of  yer  new-fan- 
gled clo's  an'  yer  fancy  mustachers.  An'  es 
fur  Mandy,  don't  s'pose  she  '11  'member  ye, 
case  she  wus  too  little  w'en  ye  —  w'en  ye 
war' — w'en  they  tuck  ye  off.  She  was  no- 
thin'  but  er  baby  then,  ye  know.  Well,  not 
ezactly  a  baby,  nuther,  but  er  little  gal  like. 
Le's  see,  she  air  sevingteen  now ;  well,  she 
wer  'bout  five  er  six,  er  sich  a  matter,  then. 
Mebbe  she  mought  know  ye  too." 

D'Antinac,  as  he  listened  to  this,  began 
to  understand  that  in  some  way  he  had 
been  identified  in  the  old  man's  mind  as  a 
long-lost  son,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
his  only  safety  lay  in  ready  and  pliant  ac- 
ceptance, if  not  in  active  furtherance,  of 
the  illusion.  He  was  roughly  hustled  into 
the  Hodson  dwelling,  a  squat  old  house, 
built  of  pine  logs,  with  the  cracks  between 
boarded  over  with  clapboards. 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  93 

"  Sarah,  der  ye  'member  this  yer  little 
rooster  ?  "  Hodson  exclaimed,  with  a  ring 
of  pride  in  his  stubborn  voice,  as  he  twisted 
D'Antinac  around  so  as  to  bring  him  face 
to  face  with  a  slim,  sallow,  wrinkled  little 
old  woman,  who  stood  by  an  enormous 
fireplace,  smoking  an  oily-looking  clay 
pipe.  "  Don't  he  jest  hev  a  sort  er  nat'ral 
look  ter  ye?  Hev  he  be'n  killed  in  the 
wa',  Sarah,  eh  ? " 

The  woman  did  not  respond  immedi- 
ately. She  took  the  pipe  from  her  mouth 
and  gazed  at  D'Antinac.  Her  face  slowly 
assumed  a  yearning  look,  and  at  length, 
with  a  sort  of  moaning  cry  of  recognition, 
she  fell  upon  him  and  clasped  him  close, 
kissing  him  and  wetting  him  with  her 
tears.  Her  breath,  heavy  with  the  malodor 
of  nicotine,  almost  strangled  him,  but  he 
dared  not  resist. 

During  this  ordeal  he  got  broken 
glimpses  of  a  bright  girlish  face,  a  heavy 
rimpled  mass  of  lemon-colored  hair,  and  a 


94  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

very  pretty  form  clothed  in  a  loose  home- 
spun gown. 

"  Mandy,  hit  air  Dave  come  back,  yer 
brother  Dave ;  do  yer  'member  'im  ? "  he 
heard  the  old  man  say.  "  Do  yer  'member 
the  little  rooster  'at  they  conscripted  an' 
tuck  erway  ter  the  wa'  ?  Well,  thet  air 's 
him,  thet  air 's  Dave !  Go  kiss  'im, 
Mandy." 

The  girl  did  not  move,  nor  did  she  seem 
at  all  inclined  to  share  the  excitement  of 
her  parents. 

"  Go  kiss  yer  bud,  Mandy,  I  say,"  Hod- 
son  commanded.  "  He  wus  n't  killed  in  no 
wa'.     Kiss  the  little  rooster,  Mandy." 

"  Won't,"  stubbornly  responded  Mandy. 

"  Well,  now,  I  '11  jest  ber  dinged,  sis,  ef 
this  yere  hain't  jest  too  bad,"  the  old  man 
exclaimed  in  a  whining,  deprecatory  tone 
of  voice,  quite  different  from  the  gruff,  bul- 
lying sounds  usually  emitted  by  him.  "  I 
would  n't  er  thort  'at  ye  'd  'fuse  ter  be  glad 
w'en  yer  little  brother  come." 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  95 

"  'Tain't  none  o'  my  brother,  neither," 
she  said,  blushing  vermilion,  as  she  half 
shyly  gazed  at  D'Antinac,  with  her  finger 
in  her  mouth. 

Mrs.  Hodson  hung  upon  the  young  man 
for  a  space  that  seemed  to  him  next  to  in- 
terminable, and  when  at  last  she  unwound 
her  bony  arms  from  his  neck  and  pushed 
him  back,  so  as  to  get  a  good  look  at  him, 
he  felt  such  relief  as  comes  with  the  first 
fresh  breath  after  a  season  of  suffocation. 

"  Ye  air  be'n  gittin'  rich,  hain't  ye,  Dave  ? 
an'  ye  air  fatter  'n  ye  wus,  too,"  she  re- 
marked. Then  she  went  back  to  the 
hearth  and  relighted  her  pipe,  meantime 
eyeing  him  curiously. 

D'Antinac  never  before  had  found  him- 
self so  utterly  at  a  loss  for  something  to 
do  or  say.  The  occasion  was  a  singularly 
dry,  queer,  and  depressing  one.  He  felt 
the  meanness  of  his  attitude,  and  yet  a  side 
glance  at  Hodson's  stubbornly  cruel  face 
and  giant  form  was  enough  to  enforce  its 
continuance. 


96  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

"  Yer  mammy's  jest  as  purty  es  ever, 
haint  she,  Dave  ?  "  said  the  old  man  with 
a  wheedling  note  in  his  rasping  voice ;  "  she 
hain't  changed  none,  hev  she,  Dave  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  guess  —  well,  perhaps 
she 's  more  flesh  —  that  is,  stouter  than 
when  —  than  when  "  — 

"  Ye-e-s,  that  air  hit,  Dave,"  said  Hod- 
son,  "  she  air  fatter." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  ridicu- 
lous than  this  assertion.  Mrs.  Hodson, 
like  most  old  mountain  women  who  live 
on  salt  pork  and  smoke  tobacco,  was  as 
thin  and  dried  up  as  a  last  year's  beech- 
leaf.  D'Antinac  sheepishly  glanced  at 
Mandy.  The  girl  put  her  hand  over  her 
really  sweet-looking  mouth  and  uttered  a 
suppressed  titter,  at  the  same  time  deepen- 
ing her  blushes  and  shrugging  her  plump, 
shapely  shoulders. 

"  Well,  Dave,  jest  es  I  'spected,  Mandy 
hev  f  urgot  ye,"  said  Hodson ;  "  but  ye  know 
she  wer'  not  no  bigger  'n  a  nubbin  o'  dry 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  9/ 

weather  co'n  w'en  ye  wer'  tuck  away.  But 
hit 's  all  right,  Dave ;  yer  mammy  an'  me 
hev  alius  felt  like  ye  'd  turn  up  some  day, 
an'  lo  an'  behole,  ye  hev." 

Once  more  D'Antinac  bravely  tried  to 
deny  this  alleged  kinship  to  the  Hodson 
household,  but  the  old  man  instantly  flew 
into  a  passion  and  threatened  all  sorts  of 
condign  punishment,  not  the  worst  of 
which  was  "  swiping  him  all  over  a'  acre 
o'  groun'." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  I  can't  afford  to  have 
you  for  a  moment  think  "  — 

"  Dry  up,  ye  little  sniv'lin'  conscript,  er 
I  '11  mop  this  yere  floo'  wi'  ye  in  a  minute ! 
Hain't  ye  got  no  sense  't  all  ?  Hev  I  got 
ter  down  ye  ag'in  ?  " 

D'Antinac  could  not  help  himself.  He 
made  a  full  surrender,  and  accepted,  for 
the  time,  his  role  of  returned  son  and  bro- 
ther, trusting  that  something  would  soon 
turn  up  to  free  him  from  the  embarrass- 
ment.    He  was    not   long  in  discovering 


98  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  -* 

that  Mrs.  Hodson's  faith  in  his  identity 
was  much  weaker  than  the  old  man's,  and 
as  for  Mandy,  she  very  flatly  refused  to 
accept  him  as  a  brother. 

It  was  now  sundown,  and  the  evening 
shadows  were  gathering  in  the  valley.  Far 
and  near,  the  brown  thrushes,  the  cardinal 
grosbeaks,  and  the  catbirds  were  singing 
in  the  hedges  of  sassafras  that  overgrew 
the  old  worm  fences  of  the  Hodson  farm. 
The  woods  along  the  mountain-sides  were 
almost  black  with  their  heavy  leafage,  and 
the  stony  peaks  of  the  highest  ridge  in 
the  west,  catching  the  reflection  from  the 
sunset  clouds,  looked  like  heaps  of  gold. 
A  peculiar  dryness  seemed  to  pervade 
earth,  air,  and  sky,  as  if  some  underground 
volcanic  heat  had  banished  every  trace  of 
moisture  from  the  soil,  whilst  the  sun 
had  desiccated  the  atmosphere.  Even  the 
clouds,  scudding  overhead,  had  the  look  of 
being  crisp  and  withered. 

With  all  a  Sand  Mountain  man's  faith  in 


HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT  99 

the  universal  efficacy  of  fried  bacon,  Hod- 
son  ordered  supper  to  be  prepared.  Mandy 
rolled  up  the  sleeves  of  her  homespun 
dress,  showing  arms  as  white  and  plump 
as  those  of  a  babe,  and  proceeded  to  cut 
some  long  slices  of  streaked  "  side-meat,"  as 
the  mountaineers  term  smoked  breakfast- 
bacon,  while  her  father  started  a  fire  on 
the  liberal  hearth.  The  supper  was  rather 
greasy,  but  not  unpalatable,  the  fried  corn- 
bread  and  crisp  meat  being  supplemented 
by  excellent  coffee.  During  the  meal 
Hodson  plied  D'Antinac  with  questions  as 
to  where  he  had  spent  all  these  years  of 
absence,  questions  very  hard  to  answer  sat- 
isfactorily. 

Mrs.  Hodson  silently  watched  the  young 
man,  with  a  doubting,  wistful  look  in  her 
watery  eyes,  as  if  she  could  not  make  up 
her  mind  to  trust  him  wholly,  and  yet 
was  anxious  to  accept  him  as  her  long-lost 
son.  Mandy  scarcely  lifted  her  face  after 
she  sat  down  at  the  table,  but  D'Antinac 


100  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

fancied  he  could  detect  a  dimpling  ripple 
of  suppressed  merriment  about  her  rosy 
cheeks  and  mouth. 

When  supper  was  over,  and  Mandy  had 
washed  the  dishes  and  put  them  away, 
Hodson  proposed  music ;  he  was  almost 
hilarious. 

"  Ye  ricollec'  Jord,  don't  ye,  Dave  ?  Our 
ole  nigger  feller — course  ye  do,  yer  boun' 
ter  ricollec'  'im,  could  n't  never  furgit  'im  ; 
mean  ole  villyun,  but  er  good  hand  ter  hoe 
cotting  an'  pull  fodder.  Well,  he  's  jest 
got  in  from  the  upper  co'n-fiel',  an'  is  er 
feedin'  'is  mule.  Soon  es  he  comes  ter  'is 
cabing,  I  '11  call  'im  in  ter  pick  the  banjer 
fur  ye,  an'  I  don't  whant  ye  ter  say  nothin' 
'bout  who  ye  air,  an'  see  ef  he  'members 
ye." 

Of  course  D'Antinac  assented ;  there 
v/as  nothing  else  for  him  to  do.  In  fact, 
he  was  beginning  to  feel  a  sharp  interest 
in  the  progress  of  this  queer  farce.  He 
tried  to  get  a  look  into  Mandy's  roguish 


HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT  lOI 

eyes,  that  he  might  be  sure  of  her  sympa- 
thy ;  but  she  avoided  him,  her  cheeks  all  the 
time  burning  with  blushes,  and  her  yellow- 
ish hair  tossed  loosely  over  her  neck  and 
shoulders.  Presently  Hodson  went  out  to 
bring  in  Jord  and  the  banjo.  It  was  dur- 
ing his  absence,  and  while  Mrs.  Hodson 
was  stooping  over  the  embers  on  the 
hearth,  trying  to  scoop  up  a  coal  to  light 
her  pipe,  that  the  bashful  girl  got  up  and 
walked  across  the  room.  As  she  passed 
D'Antinac,  she  whispered :  — 

"  Ye  must  'member  Jord  soon  es  ye  see 
'im  —  don't  ye  fail.     Save  er  rumpus." 

"  All  right,"  whispered  D'Antinac. 

Hodson  reentered  in  due  time,  followed 
by  a  slender,  bony  negro  man,  whose  iron- 
gray  wool  and  wrinkled  face  indexed  his 
age  at  near  seventy  years. 

'*  Jording,  der  ye  know  this  yere  gentle- 
man ? "  said  Hodson,  pointing  at  D'Anti- 
nac and  grinning  triumphantly. 

"  Naw,  sah,  don't  fink  er  do,"  answered 


102  HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT 

the  negro,  twirling  his  banjo  in  a  self-con- 
scious way,  and  bowing  obsequiously. 

Mrs.  Hodson  and  Mandy  interchanged 
half-frightened  grimaces,  followed  by  fur- 
tive glances  toward  the  man  of  the  house. 

"  Jording,"  said  Hodson,  "  ef  ye  don't 
tell  me  who  this  yere  feller  air  in  less  'n  a 
minute,  I  '11  jest  nat'rally  take  the  ramrod 
out'n  Hornet,"  pointing  to  a  long  rifle  that 
hung  over  the  door,  "  an'  I  '11  jest  wax  hit 
to  ye,  tell  ye  '11  be  glad  ter  'member  mos' 
anybody.     Now  talk  it  out  quick !  " 

Mandy  gave  D'Antinac  a  sign  with  her 
eyes.  Mrs.  Hodson  clasped  her  thin, 
work-worn  hands. 

"  Why,  Jord,  old  fellow,  don't  you  re- 
member Dave ! "  exclaimed  D'Antinac, 
taking  a  step  forward,  and  simulating  great 
joy  and  surprise. 

"  W-w-w'at  Dave  is  yer  tarkin'  'bout?" 
stammered  the  poor  old  negro. 

Hodson's  face  instantly  swelled  with 
rage,  and  he  certainly  would  have  done 


\V-W— WAT   DAVE    IS   YER   TARKIN'    -BOUT?' 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  IO3 

something  desperate  had  not  D'Antinac 
just  then  closed  up  the  space  between  him- 
self and  Jord.  Mandy,  too,  joined  the 
group  and  whispered :  — 

"  Don't  be  er  fool,  Jord,  say  hit 's  Dave 
come  back  f'om  the  wa'." 

Jord's  wits  and  conscience  were  a  little 
refractory,  but  Mandy 's  voice  found  an 
able  auxiliary  in  the  fact  that  Hodson  had 
by  this  time  got  possession  of  the  rifle- 
ramrod,  and  was  flourishing  it  furiously. 

"  W'y,  Mars  Dave  !  dis  you  ?  'Clar'  ter 
goodness  de  ole  niggah's  eyes  gittin'  pow'- 
ful  pore !  Did  n'  know  yer  no  mo'n  nuffin' 
at  fus' ;  but  yer  look  jes'  es  nat'ral  es  der 
ole  mule  ter  me  now.  Wha'  ye  been  all 
dis  time.  Mars  Dave  ?  'Clar'  ter  goodness 
ye  'sprise  de  ole  niggah's  senses  mos'  out'n 
'im,  yer  does  fo'  sho' ! " 

While  Jord  was  thus  delivering  himself, 
he  kept  one  eye  queerly  leering  at  D'An- 
tinac, and  the  other  glaring  wildly  at  the 
wavering  ramrod. 


104  HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT 

"  Ther',  what  'd  I  tell  ye  ?  "  exclaimed 
Hodson  vociferously ;  "  what  'd  I  tell  ye ! 
Jord  'members  'im  !  Hit  air  Dave,  she 's  ye 
bo'n,  Sarah !  Hit  air  our  boy,  fur  a  fac', 
the  blamed  little  rooster !  He  wus  n't  killed 
in  no  wa',  Sarah !  I  alius  tole  ye  'at  he  'd 
come  back,  an'  sho'  'nuff,  yer  he  air !  Hal- 
looyer !  "  As  he  spoke  he  capered  awk- 
wardly over  the  floor  to  the  imminent 
danger  of  every  one's  toes.  When  his 
ecstasy  had  somewhat  abated,  he  turned  to 
Jord,  his  face  beaming  with  delight. 

"  Now,  Jording,"  he  said,  "  give  us  my 
favoryte  song;  an',  Jording,  put  on  the 
power,  put  on  the  power !  This  yere  's  a 
'cashun  of  onlimited  rejoicin' !  Hain't  it, 
Sarah  ? " 

"  Hit  air,"  responded  Mrs.  Hodson,  puff- 
ing lazily  at  her  old  pipe. 

Hodson  took  a  chair,  placed  it  close 
beside  his  wife,  sat  down  with  his  hand 
caressing  her  shoulder,  and  whispered :  — 

"  Hain't  this  yere  jest  glor'ous .?  " 


HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT  105 

"  Hit  air,"  she  answered  lifelessly. 

Mandy's  face  was  as  pink  as  the  petals 
of  a  wild  rose,  and  her  heart  was  fluttering 
strangely. 

D'Antinac,  keenly  alive  to  the  dramatic 
situation,  and  somewhat  troubled  as  to  how 
it  was  to  end,  glanced  around  the  room, 
and,  despite  his  mental  perturbation,  be- 
came aware  of  the  rude  but  powerful  set- 
ting of  the  scene.  The  pine-smoked  walls 
and  ceiling,  the  scant,  primitive  furniture, 
the  scrupulously  clean  puncheon  floor,  the 
long  flint-locked  rifle,  the  huge  "stick  and 
dirt "  fireplace,  the  broad,  roughly  laid 
hearth,  and  the  smoke-grimed  wooden 
crane,  all  taken  together,  made  an  entourage 
in  perfect  accord  with  the  figures,  the  cos- 
tumes, and  the  predicament. 

Jord  tuned  his  banjo  with  some  show  of 
faltering,  and  presently  he  began  to  play 
and  sing.  The  following,  which  were  the 
closing  stanzas,  will  serve  to  give  an  idea 
of  the  performance :  — 


I06  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

"  Ab'um  Linkum  say  he  gwine  ter 

Free  ole  niggah  in  de  wah, 

But  Mars  Hodson  say  he  mine  ter 

See  how  Ab'um  do  dat  dar  ! 
Hoop-te-loody,  how  ye  gwine  ter 
When  Mars  Hodson  not  er  mine  ter  ? 

"  Den  ole  Ab'um  say  ;  'You  free  um  ! ' 

But  Mars  Hodson  cut  an'  shoot, 

An'  say  to  Ab'um  dat  he  see  'um 

At  de  debbil  'fore  he  do  't ! 
Hoop-te-loody,  how  ye  gwine  ter 
When  Mars  Hodson  not  er  mine  ter  ?  " 

"  That  air  a  fac',"  exclaimed  Hodson 
almost  gleefully,  "  that  air  a  fac'.  Here 's 
what  never  guv  in  yit,  Dave  !  They  tried 
fur  ter  mek  me  fight  fur  the  Confed'ret 
States  an'  they  never  done  hit,  an'  'en  they 
tried  ter  conscrip'  me,  like  they  did  you, 
Dave,  but  I  cut  'em  an'  shot  'em  an'  hid 
out  aroun'  in  these  yere  woods  tell  they 
guv  my  place  the  name  o'  Hide-out,  an' 
they  did  n't  conscrip'  me,  nuther ;  an'  'en 
the  tother  gov'ment  proclamated  an'  sot 
ever'body's  niggers  free,  but  yer  daddy  hel' 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  10/ 

on  ter  his  one  lone  nigger  jes'  ter  show 
'em  'at  he  could,  fur  ther  's  not  a  gov'ment 
onto  the  top  side  o'  yearth  'at  kin  coerce 
er  subjugate  yer  daddy,  Dave." 

Jord  hung  his  head  in  the  utmost 
humility  while  his  master  was  speaking. 
A  keen  pang  of  sympathy  shot  through 
D'Antinac's  bosom.  The  thought  that 
this  kindly-faced  old  negro  was  still  a 
slave,  the  one  lone  man  of  his  race,  whose 
shackles  remained  unbroken,  was  touching 
beyond  compare.  And  yet  it  seemed  in 
consonance  with  the  nature  of  things  that 
such  a  person  as  Hodson  should  be  able, 
situated  as  he  was,  to  resist,  for  any  length 
of  time,  the  tide  of  the  new  regime.  This 
easy  turn  from  the  absurd  to  the  pathetic 
gave  a  new  force  to  the  situation,  harden- 
ing and  narrowing  its  setting,  whilst  it 
added  infinite  depth  to  its  meaning.  Here- 
indeed,  was  the  very  heart  of  Sand  Moun- 
tain, and  well  might  it  be  called  Hodson's 
Hide-out,  where  slavery's  last  victim  had 


I08  HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT 

been  hidden  safe  from  the  broad  eyes  of 
freedom. 

D'Antinac  could  not  sleep  when  at  last 
he  had  been  left  by  Hodson  in  a  little 
dingy  room,  whither  his  gun  and  pack  had 
also  been  transported.  The  bed  was  soft 
and  clean,  and  the  moonlight  pouring 
through  a  low,  square,  paneless  window 
invited  to  sleep;  he  lay  there  pondering 
and  restless.  Hodson's  last  words,  before 
bidding  him  good-night,  kept  ringing  in 
his  ears :  — 

"  Thet  ole  Jording  air  a  livin'  ezample 
o'  my  'termination  an'  ondurence,  Dave, 
an'  hit  shows  what  stuff  yer  daddy 's  made 
out'n.  The  whole  etarnal  worl'  kin  never 
free  that  air  nigger.  He  er  mine  ter  keep, 
es  the  ole  hymn  say,  '  whatever  may 
erpose.'  " 

D'Antinac  was  small  of  stature  and  not 
at  all  a  hero  mentally;  but  he  had  come 
of  a  liberty  loving  ancestry,  and  was,  de- 
spite his  foreign  looking  name,  an  Ameri- 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  IO9 

can  to  his  heart's  core.  No  doubt  the 
wild  roving  life  he  had  for  years  been  lead- 
ing, as  an  emissary  of  an  ornithological 
society,  had  served  to  emphasize  and  ac- 
centuate his  love  of  freedom  in  every  sense. 

He  had  turned  and  tossed  on  his  bed 
for  several  hours,  when  a  peculiar  voice, 
between  a  chant  and  a  prayer  in  its  into- 
nations, came  in  through  the  little  window, 
along  with  the  white  stream  of  moonlight. 
He  got  up  and  softly  went  to  the  aperture. 
The  voice  came  from  a  little  detached 
cabin  in  the  back  yard.  It  was  Jord  pray- 
ing. 

"  Lor',  hab  de  ole  man  sarb  ye  well  an' 
true }  Mus'  I  die  er  slabe  an'  come  'ome 
ter  glory  wid  de  chain  on  ?  What  I  done, 
Lor',  'at  ye  'zart  me  when  I  'se  ole  ?  Is  I 
nebber  gwine  ter  be  free  ?  Come  down. 
Lor',  an',  'stain  de  ole  man  in  he  'fliction 
an'  trouble,  an',  O  Lor',  gib  'im  ole  eyes 
one  leetle  glimp'  ob  freedom  afore  he  die. 
Amen." 


no  HODSON'S    HIDE-OUT 

Such  were  the  closing  words  of  the 
plaintive  and  touching  prayer.  No  won- 
der that  suddenly  D'Antinac's  whole  life 
focused  itself  in  the  desire  to  liberate  that 
old  slave.  He  forgot  every  element  of  his 
predicament,  save  his  nearness  to  the  last 
remnant  of  human  bondage.  He  drew  on 
his  clothes,  seized  his  pack  and  gun,  and 
slyly  crept  out  through  the  little  window. 
The  cool,  sweet  mountain  air  braced  him 
like  wine.  This  ought  to  be  the  breath  of 
freedom.  These  rugged  peaks  surround- 
ing the  little  "  pocket  "  or  valley  ought  not 
to  fence  in  a  slave  or  harbor  a  master. 

Riley  Hodson  slept  soundly  all  night, 
and  did  not  get  up  before  breakfast  was 
ready. 

"  Let  the  little  rooster  sleep ;  hit  air 
Sunday,  anyhow;  let  'im  git  up  when  he 
whants  ter,"  said  the  old  man,  when  D'An- 
tinac  failed  to  appear. 

Mandy  had  fried  some  ham  and  eggs 
for  breakfast,  and  she  came  to  the  table 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  III 

clad  in  a  very  becoming  calico  gown.  Mrs. 
Hodson  appeared  listless,  and  her  eyes  had 
no  cheerful  light  in  them.  The  old  man 
ate  ravenously  the  choicest  eggs  and  the 
best  slices  of  ham,  with  the  air  of  one  de- 
termined upon  vicariously  breaking  the 
fast  of  the  entire  household.  But  Mandy 
had  saved  back  in  the  frying-pan  some 
extra  bits  for  the  young  stranger. 

An  hour  passed. 

"  Guess  the  blamed  little  rooster  air 
a-goin'  ter  snooze  all  day.  Mebbe  I  'd  bet- 
ter wake  'im,"  Hodson  at  last  said,  and 
went  to  the  little  bedroom.  He  tapped  on 
the  door,  but  got  no  response.  Then  he 
pounded  heavily  and  called  out :  — 

"  Hullo,  Dave  !  " 

Silence  followed.  He  turned  and  glared 
at  Mrs.  Hodson,  then  at  Mandy. 

"  The  blamed  little  rooster !  "  he  mut- 
tered, flinging  open  the  door.  For  many 
seconds  he  stood  peering  into  the  room. 
Presently   he   clutched    the    doorpost   to 


112  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

steady  himself,  then  he  reeled  round,  and 
his  face  grew  white. 

"  Dave  er  gone  !  "  he  gasped ;  "  Dave  er 
gone  !    Lor-r-d,  Sarah,  he  air  gone  ag'in  !  " 

Almost  involuntarily  Mandy  went  to 
the  bedroom  door  and  confirmed  her  fa- 
ther's assertion.  Mrs.  Hodson  was  quiet. 
Indeed,  there  seemed  to  have  fallen  a  per- 
fect hush  over  the  valley  and  the  moun- 
tains. 

Riley  Hodson  soon  rallied.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet  like  a  tiger. 

"  Mandy,"  he  stormed,  "  go  tell  Jording 
ter  bridle  an'  saddle  the  mule,  quick !  " 

Mandy  went  at  his  command,  as  if  blown 
by  his  breath.  In  a  few  minutes  she  re- 
turned, white  as  a  ghost,  and  gasped  :  — 

"  Jord  er  gone  !  " 

"What!     How!     Gone!     Jording!" 

"  He  air  gone,"  Mandy  repeated,  holding 
out  a  two-dollar  "  greenback  "  bill  in  one 
hand  and  a  piece  of  writing-paper  in  the 
other. 


HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT  II3 

"  I  got  these  yere  off  'n  Jord's  table." 
With  great  difficulty  and  in  a  breathless 

way,   she    read    aloud   what   was   hastily 

scrawled  on  the  paper  :  — 

Mr.  Hodson  : 

Dear  Sir,  —  You  are  greatly  mistaken; 
I  am  not  your  son-  I  never  saw  you  or 
any  member  of  your  family  in  my  life  be- 
fore yesterday.  Your  wife  and  daughter 
are  both  well  aware  of  your  curious  illu- 
sion. Jordan,  whom  I  take  with  me  to 
freedom,  knows  that  I  am  not  your  lost 
son.     In  fact,  I  am. 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

David  D'Antinac. 

P.  S.  A  letter  will  reach  me  if  di- 
rected in  care  of  the  Smithsonian  Institu- 
tion at  Washington,  D.  C.  I  inclose  two 
dollars  to  pay  for  the  trouble  I  have 
given  you. 

Hodson  caught  his  mule,  bridled  it  and 


114  HODSON'S   HIDE-OUT 

saddled  it,  and  rode  away  up  the  zigzag 
mountain  trail  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitives  ; 
but  he  did  not  catch  them.  At  nightfall 
he  returned  in  a  sombre  mood,  with  a  look 
of  dry  despair  in  his  eyes.  For  a  long 
while  he  did  not  speak;  but  at  length, 
when  his  wife  came  and  sat  down  close 
beside  him,  he  muttered  :  — 

"  Wer'  hit  Dave,  Sarah  ?  " 

"  Hit  wer'  not,"  she  answered ;  "  Dave 
never  had  no  mole  onter  'is  chin." 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

"  When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height." 

The  Rudgis  farm  was  the  only  one  in 
Lone  Ridge  Pocket,  a  secluded  nook  of 
the  North  Georgia  mountain-region,  and  its 
owner,  Eli  Rudgis,  was,  in  the  ante-bellum 
time,  a  man  among  the  simple  and  honest 
people  who  dwelt  beside  the  little  crooked 
highway  leading  down  the  valley  of  the 
Pine-log  Creek.  He  owned  but  one  ne- 
gro, as  was  often  the  case  with  them,  and 
he  had  neither  wife  nor  children.  His 
slave  was  his  sole  companion  of  the  hu- 
man kind,  sharing  with  certain  dogs,  pigs, 
horses,  and  oxen  a  rude,  democratic  dis- 
tribution of  favors  and  frowns.  As  a  man 
this  negro  was  an  interesting  specimen  of 
the  genuine  African  :  short,  strongly  built, 
but   ill-shapen,   with   a  large  head  firmly 


Il6  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

braced  by  a  thick,  muscular  neck  on  broad, 
stooping  shoulders;  a  skin  as  black  as 
night ;  small  deep-set  eyes ;  a  protruding, 
resolute  jaw  ;  and  a  nose  as  flat  as  the  head 
of  an  adder.  As  a  slave  he  was,  perhaps, 
valuable  enough  in  his  way;  but  both  as 
man  and  thrall  he  did  no  discredit  to  his 
name,  which  was  Grim.  He,  too,  was  a 
familiar  figure  along  the  Pine-log  road,  as 
he  drove  an  old  creaking  ox-cart  to  and 
from  the  village. 

When  the  war  broke  out,  master  and 
slave  had  reached  the  beginning  of  the 
downward  slope  of  life,  and,  having  spent 
many  years  together  in  their  lonely  retreat 
at  the  Pocket,  had  grown  to  love  each 
other  after  the  surly,  taciturn  fashion  of 
men  who  have  few  thoughts  and  a  meagre 
gift  of  expression. 

Eli  Rudgis  was  tall,  slim,  cadaverous, 
slow  of  movement,  and  sallow ;  but  he  had 
a  will  of  his  own,  and  plenty  of  muscle  to 
enforce  it  withal. 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  11/ 

"  Grim,"  said  he  one  day,  "  them  derned 
Northerners  air  a-goin'  ter  set  ye  free." 

The  negro  looked  up  from  the  hickory- 
bark  basket  he  was  mending,  and  scowled 
savagely  at  his  master. 

"  Wat  yo'  say,  Mars'  Rudgis  ?  "  he  pre- 
sently inquired. 

"  Them  Yankees  air  a-goin'  ter  gi'  ye^ 
yer  freedom  poorty  soon." 

Grim's  face  took  on  an  expression  of 
dogged  determination,  his  shoulders  rose 
almost  to  the  level  of  his  protruding  ears, 
and  his  small,  wolfish  eyes  gleamed  fiercely. 

"  Who  say  dey  gwine  ter  do  dat  ?  "  he 
demanded  with  slow,  emphatic  enunciation. 

"  I  say  hit,  an'  w'en  I  says  hit,"  began 
the  master ;  but  Grim  broke  in  with  :  — 

"  Dey  cayn't  do  nuffin'  wid  me.  I  done 
made  up  my  mine ;  dis  chil'  cayn't  be 
fo'ced.     Yo'  yah  dat.  Mars'  Rudgis  ?  " 

Rudgis  grinned  dryly,  and  walked  away, 
smoking  his  cob-pipe  with  the  air  of  a  phi- 
losopher who  bides  his  time. 


Il8  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

The  Rudgis  cabin  was  a  low,  nonde- 
script log  structure  of  three  or  four  rooms 
and  a  wide  entry  or  hall,  set  in  the  midst  of 
a  thick,  luxuriant  orchard  of  peach,  plum, 
and  apple  trees  crowning  a  small  conical 
foothill,  which,  seen  from  a  little  distance, 
appeared  to  rest  against  the  rocky  breast 
of  the  mountain  that  stood  over  against 
the  mouth  of  the  Pocket.  From  the  rick- 
ety veranda,  where  Rudgis  now  sought  a 
seat,  there  was  a  fine  view  of  the  little 
farm,  whose  angular  but  rolling  patches  of 
tillable  land  straggled  away  to  the  foothills 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Pocket,  beyond 
which  the  wall  of  cliffs  rose,  gray  and 
brown,  to  a  great  height. 

Recently  Eli  Rudgis  had  been  thinking 
a  good  deal  about  Grim ;  for,  as  the  war 
continued,  it  grew  in  his  mind  that  the 
South  was  going  to  lose  the  fight.  He 
had  only  recently  heard  of  President  Lin- 
coln's emancipation  proclamation,  and  with 
that  far-seeing  prudence  characteristic  of 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  II9 

a  certain  order  of  provincial  intellect  he 
was  considering  how  best  to  forestall  the 
effect  of  freedom  if  it  should  come,  as  he 
feared  it  would.  Grim  was  his  property, 
valued  at  about  eight  hundred  dollars  in 
"  good  money,"  or  in  Confederate  scrip  at 
perhaps  two  or  three  thousand  dollars, 
more  or  less.  He  shrank  from  selling  the 
negro,  for  in  his  dry,  peculiar  way  he  was 
fond  of  him ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
could  not  consent  to  lose  so  much  money 
on  the  outcome  of  an  issue  not  of  his  own 
making.  It  can  readily  be  imagined  how, 
with  ample  leisure  for  reflection,  and  with 
no  other  problem  to  share  his  attention, 
Rudgis  gradually  buried  himself,  so  to 
speak,  in  this  desire  to  circumvent  and 
nullify  emancipation  (in  so  far  as  it  would 
affect  his  ownership  of  Grim)  when  it 
should  come. 

Grim  was  far  more  knowing,  far  better 
informed,  and  much  more  of  a  philosopher, 
than  his  master  gave  him  credit  for  being. 


120  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

By  some  means,  as  occult  as  reliable,  he 
had  kept  perfectly  abreast  of  the  progress 
of  the  great  weltering,  thundering,  death- 
dealing  tempest  of  the  war,  and  in  his  heart 
he  felt  the  coming  of  deliverance,  the  jubi- 
lee of  eternal  freedom  for  his  race.  Inca- 
pable, perhaps,  of  seeing  clearly  the  true 
aspect  of  what  was  probably  in  store  for 
him,  he  yet  experienced  a  change  of  pros- 
pect that  affected  every  fibre  of  his  imagi- 
nation, and  opened  wide  every  pore  of  his 
sensibility.  Naturally  wary,  suspicious,  and 
quick  to  observe  signs,  he  had  been  aware 
that  his  master  was  revolving  some  scheme, 
which  in  all  probability  would  affect  a 
change  in  their  domestic  relations,  to  the 
extent,  possibly,  of  severing  the  tie  which 
for  so  long  had  bound  together  the  lord 
and  the  thrall  of  Lone  Ridge  Pocket. 

"  He  studyin'  'bout  er-sellin'  me,"  he 
soliloquized,  as  he  lingered  over  his  task 
of  basket-mending  after  Rudgis  had  gone, 
"  an'  he  fink  he  er-gwine  ter  fool  dis  ol' 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  121 

coon.  Well,  'fore  de  Lor',  mebbe  he 
will." 

"  What  ye  mutterin'  thar.  Grim .?"  called 
the  master  from  his  seat  on  the  veranda. 
"  What  ye  growlin'  'bout,  lak  er  pup  over 
er  ham-bone  ?  " 

"  Nuffin',  sah  ;  I  jes'  tryin'  fo'  ter  ketch 
dat  chune  w'at  I  be'n  er-l'arnin'." 

Then  to  clench  the  false  statement, 
Grim  began  humming:  — 

"  De  coon  he  hab  er  eejit  wife, 
Hoe  yo'  co'n,  honey, 
De  coon  he  hab  er  eejit  wife, 
An'  she  nebber  comb  her  hah  in  'er  life, 
Keep  er-hoein'  yo'  co'n,  honey. 

"  An'  de  coon  say :  '  I  knows  w'at  I  '11  do,' 

Hoe  yo'  co'n,  honey, 
An'  his  wife  she  squall  out,  '  I  does  too ! ' 
An'  she  snatch  'im  poorty  nigh  in  two. 

Keep  er-hoein'  yo'  co'n,  honey. 

"  So  dat  coon  he  alius  ricollec', 

Hoe  yo'  co'n,  honey, 
Ef  he  talk  too  loud  he  mus'  expec' 
She  scratch  he  eyes  an'  wring  he  neck, 

Keep  er-hoein'  yo'  co'n,  honey  ! " 


122  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

Rudgis  listened  stoically  enough,  so  far 
as  facial  expression  went ;  but  when  the 
low,  softly  melodious  song  was  done,  he 
shook  his  head,  and  smiled  aridly. 

"  Got  more  sense  'an  er  Philadelphy 
laryer,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath,  "an' 
he  's  got  some  undertakin'  inter  that  nog- 
gin er  his'n.  S'pect  I  hev  ter  do  some- 
thin'  er  nother  wi'  him,  er  he  's  er-goin'  ter 
git  the  best  o'  me." 

He  drew  away  at  his  wheezing  pipe, 
leaning  his  chin,  thinly  fringed  with  griz- 
zled beard,  in  his  left  hand,  and  propping 
that  arm  with  his  knee.  His  typical  moun- 
tain face  wore  a  puzzled,  half-worried,  half- 
amused  expression. 

"Dern'is  black  pictur',"  he  continued 
inaudibly,  though  his  lips  moved  ;  "  he  air 
a-considerin'  freedom  right  now." 

"  Whi'  man  tuk  me  fer  er  fool, 

Hoe  yo'  co'n,  honey, 
Wo'k  me  like  er  yaller  mule, 
An'  never  gi'  me  time  ter  cool, 

Keep  er-hoein'  yo'  co'n,  honey," 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  123 

hummed  Grim  in  that  tender  falsetto  of 
his.  There  was  a  haze  in  the  air,  a  May- 
time  shimmer  over  the  Pocket  and  up  the 
terraced  slopes  of  the  mountains.  Sud- 
denly a  heavy  booming,  like  distant  thun- 
der, tumbled  as  if  in  long,  throbbing  waves 
across  the  peaks,  and  fell  into  the  little 
drowsy  cove. 

"Wat  dat.  Mars'  Rudgis  ?  'Fore  de 
Lor',  w'at  dat  ? "  cried  the  negro,  leaping 
to  his  feet,  and  staring  stupidly,  his  great 
mouth  open,  his  long  arms  akimbo. 

Eli  Rudgis  took  his  pipe-stem  from  his 
mouth,  and  sat  in  a  barkening  attitude. 
"  Hit 's  thet  air  war  er-comin',"  he  pre- 
sently said,  and  resumed  his  smoking  and 
reflections. 

"  De  good  Lor',  Mars'  Rudgis,  w'at  we 
gwine  ter  do?  "  stammered  Grim,  his  heavy 
countenance  growing  strangely  ashen  over 
its  corrugated  blackness. 

"  Shet  erp,  an'  mend  that  ther'  basket," 
growled  the  master.     "  Goin'  ter  mek  ye 


124  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

wo'k  like  the  devil  er-beatin'  tan-bark  while 
I  kin:  fer  thet's  yer  frien's  er-comin',  ter 
free  ye,  Grim,  shore  's  shootin'." 

The  African  bowed  his  head  over  his 
light  task,  and  remained  thoughtfully  si- 
lent, while  the  dull  pounding  in  the  far 
distance  increased  to  an  incessant  roar, 
vague,  wavering,  suggestive,  awful. 

Rudgis  thought  little  of  the  wider  sig- 
nificance accompanying  that  slowly  rolling 
tempest  of  destruction  ;  his  mental  vision 
was  narrowed  to  the  compass  of  the  one 
subject  which  lately  had  demanded  all  his 
powers  of  consideration.  Was  it  possible 
for  him  to  hold  Grim  as  his  slave  despite 
the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation,  and 
notwithstanding  the  triumph  of  the  Federal 
armies  ? 

"  Ef  I  try  ter  take  'im  down  the  country 
ter  sell  'im,  they  '11  conscrip'  me  inter  the 
war,"  he  argued  to  himself,  "  an'  ef  I  stays 
yer  them  'fernal  Yankees  '11  set  'im  free. 
Seem  lak  it  air  pow'ful  close  rubbin'  an', 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  12$ 

dern  ef  I  know  what  ter  do !     I  air  kind 
o'  twixt  the  skillet  an'  the  coals." 

Day  after  day  he  sat  smoking  and  cogi- 
tating, while  Grim  pottered  at  this  or  that 
bit  of  labor.  He  had  an  unconquerable 
aversion  to  going  into  the  army,  a  thing 
he  had  avoided,  partly  by  reason  of  his 
age  and  partly  by  one  personal  shift  or  an- 
other, after  the  exigencies  of  the  Confeder- 
acy had  led  to  the  conscription  of  "  able- 
bodied  men  "  regardless  of  age.  He  felt 
that  things  were  growing  to  desperate 
straits  in  the  low  country,  and  he  feared  to 
show  himself  outside  his  mountain  fastness 
lest  a  conscript  officer  might  nab  him  and 
send  him  to  the  front.  Not  that  he  was  a 
coward ;  but  in  the  high,  dry  atmosphere 
of  the  hill  country  there  lingered  a  sweet 
and  inextinguishable  sense  of  loyalty  to 
the  old  flag,  which  touched  the  minds  of 
many  mountaineers  with  a  vague  intima- 
tion of  the  enormity  of  rebellion  against  the 
government  of  Washington  and  Jackson. 


126  RUDGIS   AND    GRIM 

And  yet  they  were  Southerners,  good 
fighters,  Yankee-haters,  and  clung  to  the 
right  of  property  in  their  negroes  with  a 
tenacity  as  tough  as  the  sinews  of  their 
hardy  limbs.  They  were,  indeed,  far  more 
stubborn  in  this  last  regard  than  any  of 
the  great  slave-owners  of  the  low  country, 
owing,  no  doubt,  to  their  narrow,  provin- 
cial notions  of  personal  independence, 
which  felt  no  need  for  aid,  or  for  the  in- 
terference of  the  law  in  their  private  con- 
cerns. 

Grim  was  not  a  typical  slave,  but  he 
was  a  legitimate  instance  of  the  slavery 
known  in  the  secluded  region  of  the  South- 
ern mountain  country.  He  was  as  free,  in 
all  but  name,  as  were  most  illiterate  labor- 
ers of  that  day,  barring  that  his  skin  and 
the  Southern  traditions  set  him  on  a  plane 
far  below  and  quite  detached  from  that  of 
the  lowest  white  men.  He  had  no  bonds 
that  galled  him  personally;  plenty  to  eat, 
just  enough  work  to   keep  him  robust,  a 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  12/ 

good  bed,  sufficient  clothing,  and  unlimited 
tobacco  —  what  more  could  he  want  ? 

His  master,  however,  observed  that  he 
was  doing  a  great  deal  of  thinking ;  that 
lately  he  was  busying  his  mind  with  some 
absorbing  problem,  and  from  certain  signs 
and  indications  the  fact  appeared  plain 
that  Grim  was  making  ready  to  meet  the 
day  of  freedom.  Rudgis  saw  this  with  a 
dull,  deep-seated  sentimental  pang  mixed 
with  anger  and  resentment.  Years  of 
companionship  in  that  lonely  place  had 
engendered  a  fondness  for  his  slave  of 
which  he  was  not  fully  aware,  and  out  of 
which  was  now  issuing  a  sort  of  bewilder- 
ment of  mind  and  soul.  Would  Grim  in- 
deed forsake  him,  desert  him  to  go  away 
to  try  the  doubtful  chances  of  a  new  order 
of  things  ?  This  question  was  supple- 
mented by  another  on  a  different  stratum 
of  human  selfishness.  Rudgis  like  all 
mountain-men,  had  a  narrow  eye  to  profit 
and    loss.     The    money    represented    by 


128  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

Grim  as  his  slave  possessed  a  powerful  in- 
fluence; it  was  the  larger  part  of  his 
fortune. 

Grim,  on  his  part,  watched  his  master 
as  the  tide  of  war  flowed  on  through 
the  mountain-gaps  far  to  the  west  of  the 
Pocket ;  his  calculations  were  simpler  and 
more  directly  personal  than  those  of  his 
master.  Of  course  things  could  not  re- 
main in  this  situation  very  long.  Grim 
was  the  first  to  speak  straight  to  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  Mars'  Rudgis,"  said  he  one  day,  "  yo' 
be'n  'siderin'  erbout  sellin'  me." 

This  direct  accusation  took  the  master 
unawares. 

"  Wha-wha-what  's  that  air  ye  air  er-say- 
in',  ye  ol'  whelp  ? "  he  spluttered,  almost 
dropping  his  pipe. 

"  Yo'  be'n  er-finkin'  'at  I  's  gittin'  close 
onter  de  freedom  line,  an'  ye  s'pose  yo'  'd 
better  git  w'at  ye  kin  fo'  me,  yah-yah-yah- 
ee-oorp !  "  and  the  black  rascal  broke  forth 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  129 

with  a  mighty  guffaw,  bending  himself  al- 
most double,  and  slapping  his  hands  vigor- 
ously. "  But  yo'  's  feared  dey  git  ye  an' 
mek  yo'  tote  er  gun,  an'  'at  yo'  'd  git  de 
stufifin'  shot  outen  yo'  ef  yo'  try  take  me 
down  de  country,  yah-yah-yah-ee-ee-oorp ! " 

"Shet  erp  !  What  ye  mean  ?  Stop  thet 
air  sq'allin',  er  I'll"  — 

*'  Yah-yah-yah-ee-eep !  I  done  cotch  outer 
yo'  ca'c'lation,  Mars'  Rudgis,  'fo'  de  Lor'  I 
has,  oh !  Yah-yah-yah-yah-ha-eep  !  An'  yo' 
fink  I 's  er  eejit  all  dis  time,  yah-yah-yah ! 
Oh,  gi'  'long,  Mars'  Rudgis,  yo'  cayn't 
fool  dis  chicken,  yah-ha-yah-ha-ha-ha-ee- 
eer-pooh ! " 

Rudgis  tried  several  times  to  stop  this 
flow  of  accusative  mirth,  but  at  last,  quite 
confused,  he  stood  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a 
sheepish  grin  on  his  dry,  wrinkled  face, 
gazing  at  the  writhing  negro  as  he  almost 
screamed  out  his  sententious  but  fluent 
revelation. 

"  I    done   be'n  er-watchin'   yo'   like    er 


I30  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

sparrer-hawk  watchin'  er  peewee,  Mars' 
Rudgis,  an'  I  say  ter  myself :  '  Jes'  see  .'im 
er-figerin'  how  much  I  's  wo'f,  an'  how 
much  he  gwine  ter  lose  w'en  I  goes  free. 
An'  I  done  be'n  jes'  er-bustin'  over  it  all 
dis  time,  yah-yah-yah-ee-ee ! '  " 

"  Grim,"  said  Rudgis,  presently,  with 
slow,  emphatic  expression,  "  I  air  er-goin' 
'mejitly  ter  give  ye  one  whirpin'  'at  ye  '11 
ricomember  es  long  es  they 's  breath  in 
yer  scurvy  ol'  body  !  " 

They  were  standing  on  the  veranda  at 
the  time.  Rudgis  turned  into  the  entry, 
and  immediately  came  out  with  a  ramrod 
in  his  hand. 

"  Now  fer  yer  sass  ye  air  er-goin'  ter 
ketch  hit,"  he  said,  in  that  cold,  rasping 
tone  which  means  so  much.  "  Stan'  erp 
yer  an'  take  yer  med'cine." 

Grim  went  down  on  his  knees  and  be- 
gan to  beg;  his  mirth  had  vanished;  he 
was  trembling  violently.  Rudgis  had  never 
whipped  him. 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  131 

•'  Fo'  de  Lor'  sake,  Mars'  Eli,  don'  w'irp 
de  po'  ol'  chir !  I  war  jes  funnin',  Mars' 
Rudgis ;  I  jes'  want  ter  see  w'at  yo'  gwine 
say.    I"  — 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  great  clat- 
ter of  iron-shod  hoofs  at  the  little  yard 
gate ;  the  next,  three  or  four  horses 
bounded  over  the  low  fence  and  dashed  up 
to  the  veranda. 

"  Please,  Mars'  Rudgis,  don'  w'irp  me !  I 
did  n'  mean  no  harm.  Mars'  Rudgis,'  deed 
I  did  n' !  Oh,  fo'  de  Lor'  sake  !  " 

"  Ha !  there !  stop  that !  "  commanded  a 
loud,  positive  voice.  "  What  the  devil  do 
you  mean !  " 

Rudgis  had  already  looked  that  way. 
He  saw  some  mounted  soldiers,  wearing 
blue  uniforms  and  bearing  bright  guns, 
glaring  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Mars'  Rudgis,  I  never  gwine  do  so 
no  mo',  don'  w'irp  me !  don'  w'irp  me !  " 
continued  Grim,  paying  no  heed  to  the 
soldiers. 


132  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

"  Le'  me  off  dis  yer  time,  fo'  de  goo' 
Lor'  sake  !  "  And  he  held  up  his  hands 
in  dramatic  beseechment. 

"  If  you  strike  that  negro  one  blow,  I  '11 
shoot  a  hole  through  you  quicker  than 
lightning !  "  roared  one  of  the  men,  who 
appeared  to  be  an  officer,  at  the  same  time 
leveling  his  pistol. 

Rudgis  dropped  the  ramrod  as  if  he  had 
been  suddenly  paralyzed.  Grim  sprang  to 
his  feet  with  the  agility  of  a  black  cat. 

"  What  does  this  mean  .?  "  demanded  the 
officer,  showing  a  gleam  of  anger  in  his 
eyes,  his  voice  indicating  no  parleying 
mood. 

Rudgis  stood  there,  pale,  stolid,  silent, 
his  mouth  open,  his  arms  akimbo. 

'•  Lor',  sah,  we  jes'  er-foolin',"  said  Grim, 
seeing  that  his  master  could  find  not  a 
word  to  say.  "  We 's  er-playin'  hoky-poky." 

The  officer  leaned  over  his  saddle-bow, 
and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
culprits. 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  133 

"  Yes,  sah  it  war  bony-hokus  'at  we 's 
er-playin',  'zac'ly  dat,  sah,"  continued  Grim. 

"  Playing  what  ?  "  grimly  inquired  the 
officer. 

"  Rokus-pokus,  sah." 

"  You  lying  old  scamp,"  cried  the  officer, 
glaring  at  him,  "  you  're  trying  to  deceive 
me!" 

"  Ax  Mars'  Rudgis,  now ;  ax  him,  sah." 

"  Humph !  "  and  the  Federal  officer 
turned  to  the  master.  "  What  do  you  say, 
sir  ?  " 

"  Tell  'im,  Mars'  Rudgis ;  'bout  w'at  we  's 
er-playin',"  pleaded  Grim. 

Rudgis  moved  his  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but 
they  were  dry  and  made  no  sound.  He 
licked  them  with  his  furred,  feverish  tongue. 
Never  before  had  he  been  so  thoroughly 
frightened. 

"  Are  you  dumb  ?  "  stormed  the  officer, 
again  handling  his  weapon.  "  Can't  you 
speak  ?  " 

"  Hit  were  hoky-poky,"  gasped  Rudgis. 


134  RUDGIS   AND    GRIM 

"  Dah,  now !  Dah,  now  !  Mebbe  yo  's 
sat'sfied,  sah.  W'a'  'd  I  tol'  yo'  ? "  cried 
Grim,  wagging  his  head  and  gesticulating. 
"  We's  jes'er-playin'  dat  leetle  game." 

The  officer  wanted  some  information 
about  a  road  over  the  mountain,  so  he 
made  Grim  saddle  a  mule  and  go  with  him 
to  show  the  way.  As  he  rode  off  he  called 
back  to  Rudgis :  — 

"  This  man  's  as  free  as  you  are,  and  he 
need  n't  come  back  if  he  don't  want  to." 

When  they  were  quite  gone,  and  the  last 
sound  of  their  horses'  feet  had  died  away 
down  in  the  straggling  fringe  of  trees  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  Rudgis  picked  up  his 
ramrod  and  looked  at  it  quizzically,  as  if 
he  expected  it  to  speak.  Slowly  his  face 
relaxed,  and  a  queer  smile  drew  it  into 
leathery  wrinkles. 

"Hit  were  hoky-poky,  by  gum!"  he 
muttered.     "  The  dern  ol'  scamp  !  " 

Presently  he  filled  his  pipe,  and  lighted 
it,  grinning  all  the  while,  and  saying :  — 


HE    FILLED   HIS   PIPE,   AND    LIGHTED    IT 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  135 

"  The  triflin'  ol'  rooster,  he  hed  half  er 
dozen  dif  ent  names  fer  it ;  but  hit  were 
hoky-poky  jes'  the  same.  The  dern  old 
coon !  " 

The  day  passed,  likewise  the  night; 
but  Grim  did  not  return.  A  week,  a 
month,  six  months ;  no  Grim,  no  mule. 
Sherman  had  swept  through  Georgia,  and 
on  up  through  the  Carolinas ;  Johnston 
and  Lee  had  surrendered.  Peace  had 
fallen  like  a  vast  silence  after  the  awful  din 
of  war.  The  worn  and  weary  soldiers  of 
the  South  were  straggling  back  to  their 
long-neglected  homes  to  resume  as  best 
they  could  the  broken  threads  of  their 
peaceful  lives. 

Rudgis  missed  Grim  more  as  a  compan- 
ion than  as  a  slave.  He  mourned  for  him, 
in  a  way,  recalling  his  peculiarities,  and 
musing  over  that  one  superb  stroke  of  wit 
by  which,  perhaps,  his  life  had  been  saved. 
Never  did  he  fail,  at  the  end  of  such  rev- 
erie, to  repeat,  more  sadly  and   tenderly 


136  RUDGIS    AND   GRIM 

each  time,  "  Hit  war  hoky  -  poky,  blame 
his  ol'  hide  !  "  The  humor  of  this  verbal 
reference  was  invariably  indicated  by  a 
peculiar  rising  inflection  in  pronouncing 
"  were,"  by  which  he  meant  to  accentuate 
lovingly  Grim's  prompt  prevarication. 

Spring  had  come  again  to  the  moun- 
tains, bringing  its  gush  of  greenery,  its 
mellow  sunshine,  and  its  riotous  birds. 
Into  the  Pocket  blew  a  breeze,  soft,  fra- 
grant, dream  -  burdened,  eddying  like  a 
river  of  sweets  around  the  lonely,  embow- 
ered cabin. 

Early  one  morning  Rudgis  was  smok- 
ing in  his  accustomed  seat  on  the  veranda. 
In  his  shirt-sleeves,  bareheaded  and  bare- 
footed, his  cotton  shirt  open  wide  at  throat 
and  bosom,  he  looked  like  a  bronze  statue 
of  Emancipation,  so  collapsed,  wrinkled, 
and  sear  was  he.  His  Roman  nose  was 
the  only  vigorous  feature  of  his  unkempt 
and  retrospective  face. 

The  sound  of  a  mule's  feet  trotting  up 


RUDGIS   AND   GRIM  137 

the  little  stony  road  did  not  attract  his 
curiosity,  albeit  few  riders  passed  that 
way;  but  when  Grim  came  suddenly  in 
sight,  it  was  an  apparition  that  relaxed 
every  fibre  of  Rudgis's  frame.  He  dropped 
lower  in  the  old  armchair,  his  arms  fell 
limp,  and  his  mouth  opened  wide,  letting 
fall  the  cob-pipe.     He  stared  helplessly. 

"  Yah  I  is,  Mars'  Rudgis ;  got  back  at 
las'.     How  ye  do.  Mars'  Rudgis  ?  " 

There  was  a  ring  of  genuine  delight  in 
the  negro's  voice,  —  the  timbre  of  loyal 
sentiment  too  sweet  for  expression  in  writ- 
ten language.  He  slid  from  the  mule's 
back,  —  not  the  same  mule  that  he  had 
ridden  away,  but  an  older  and  poorer  one, 
—  and  scrambled  through  the  lopsided 
gate. 

"  Well,  by  dad !  "  was  all  Rudgis  could 
say ;  "  well,  by  dad  ! "  His  lower  jaw  wab- 
bled and  sagged. 

"  Tol'  yo'  dey  could  n't  sot  dis  niggah 
free,  did  n'  1 1  "  cried  Grim,  as  he  made 


138  RUDGIS   AND   GRIM 

a  dive  for  both  his  old  master's  hands. 
"  I 's  come  back  ter  'long  ter  yo'  same  lak 
I  alius  did.     Yah,  sah  ;  yah,  sah." 

Rudgis  arose  slowly  from  his  seat  and 
straightened  up  his  long,  lean  form  so 
that  he  towered  above  the  short,  sturdy 
negro.  He  looked  down  at  him  in  silence 
for  some  moments,  his  face  twitching 
strangely.  Slowly  the  old-time  expression 
began  to  appear  around  his  mouth  and 
eyes.  With  a  quick  step  he  went  into  the 
house,  and  returned  almost  instantly,  bear- 
ing a  ramrod  in  his  hand. 

"  Well,  Grim,"  he  said,  with  peculiar 
emphasis,  "  ef  ye  air  still  my  prop'ty,  an' 
ye  don't  objec',  s'posin'  we  jes'  finish  up 
that  air  leetle  game  er  hoky-poky  what  we 
was  er  playin'  w'en  them  Yankees  kem 
an'  bothered  us." 


A   RACE    ROMANCE 

For  many  years  Wiley  Brimson  had 
been  the  owner  of  Sassafras  Pocket,  a 
small  but  fertile  nook  between  two  great 
projections  of  what  is  known  as  the  Pine- 
log  Mountain  in  Cherokee,  Georgia.  He 
owned  one  slave,  a  coal-black  negro,  whom 
for  the  greater  part  of  his  lifetime  he  had 
threatened  with  condign  freedom. 

"  Ef  they  air  anythin'  'at  air  pine-blank 
wrong,"  he  was  fond  of  saying,  "  hit  air 
human  slavery.  Ther'  's  thet  nigger  o' 
mine,  thet  nigger  Rory ;  he  's  jes'  as  good 
as  I  air.  He  hev  jes'  as  much  right  ter 
boss  me  as  I  hev  ter  boss  him.  He  orter 
be  free;  but  then  I  cayn't  stan'  the  ex- 
pense o'  settin'  'im  free,  fer  he 's  wo'th 
nigh  onto  thirteen  hundred  dollars.  Hit 
air  too  much  money  ter  lose." 


140  A   RACE    ROMANCE 

A  great  deal  of  talk  in  this  strain  made 
Brimson  unpopular  long  before  the  war 
broke  out.  The  fact  is,  he  was  not  of  a 
disposition  to  be  a  common  favorite  at 
best,  especially  among  the  mountaineers, 
who  are  the  most  conservative  and  least 
argumentative  folk  in  the  world,  while  at 
the  same  time  they  are  the  most  tenacious 
of  their  opinions,  right  or  wrong. 

Rory,  the  negro,  was  younger  than  his 
master,  and  had  been  bought  by  him  at 
•sheriff's  sale  as  the  legal  victim  sacrificed 
to  pay  the  debt  of  a  drunkard. 

"  Ye  may  thank  yer  lucky  stars,  Rory, 
thet  I  hed  thet  money  on  han'  an'  bought 
ye,"  Brimson  often  said  to  his  slave;  "  fer 
ef  I  hed  n't  'a'  done  it  ye  'd  'a'  went  down 
ter  New  Orleans  jest  er-callyhootin'." 

This  was  true,  for  a  buyer  who  traded 
in  the  Louisiana  market  was  present  at 
the  sale  and  bid  close  to  the  margin  on 
Rory,  who  at  the  time  was  a  strong,  fine 
boy  of  fifteen. 


A   RACE  ROMANCE  141 

Brimson  was  a  bachelor,  and  very  natu- 
rally found  Rory  a  most  acceptable  and 
interesting  companion  as  well  as  a  decid- 
edly clever  and  faithful  servant.  The  lad's 
droll  humor  and  abundant  animal  spirits 
filled  Sassafras  Pocket  with  new  life. 

"  The  dern  leetle  rooster,"  said  Brimson 
to  a  select  company  over  at  Peevy's  still- 
house,  — "  the  dern  leetle  rooster,  he  air 
twice  as  smart  as  two  white  boys.  He  kin 
sing  like  er  tomtit,  he  kin  climb  like  er 
squirrel ;  he  kin  run  like  er  rabbit,  an'  he 
kin  pick  the  banjer  ekal  ter  er  showman." 

As  time  went  by  and  Rory  grew  to  stal- 
wart manhood,  his  master's  admiration  of 
him  confirmed  itself  in  many  ways  not  in 
the  least  relished  by  the  residents  of  the 
Pine-log  region. 

"  W'y,  fellers,"  exclaimed  Dick  Redden 
to  a  group  of  friends,  "  thet  ther'  low-down, 
no-'count  Brimson,  he  lets  thet  ther'  nigger 
eat  at  the  table  with  'im,  an'  Gabe  Holly 
say  he  see  'im  bite  er  chaw  off' n  the  nig- 
ger's terbacker." 


142  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

"  Well,"  remarked  Dave  Aikens,  '*  I 
hearn  'im  'low  thet  he  'd  Tarn  Rory  ter 
read,  ef  he  knowed  how  his  own  self." 

"  Gent'men,"  remarked  Squire  Lem 
Rookey,  with  a  judicial  reserve  in  his  man- 
ner, "hit  hev  some  'pearances  'at  Wiley 
Brimson  air  er  dern  aberlitionist." 

Usually  Squire  Rookey 's  word  was  the 
final  one,  and  from  that  day  forth  Brim- 
son's  name  had  attached  to  it  the  most 
opprobrious  qualification  to  be  found  in 
the  Southern  vocabulary.  The  man  was 
ostracized  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word. 
Such  friends  as  he  had  now  dropped  him. 
The  meetings  over  at  the  still-house  voted 
him  out,  and  the  children  avoided  passing 
him  in  the  public  road.  He  felt  all  this  to 
a  degree  which  gradually  intensified  his 
peculiarities  of  disposition  and  shut  him 
like  a  hermit  within  the  limits  of  Sassafras 
Pocket. 

"  Me  an'  my  nigger  kin  live  all  ter  our- 
selves," he  growled,  "  an'  ef  folks  don't  jes' 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  I43 

like  our  way  er  doin',  w'y,  jes'  let  'em  keep 
off' n  these  yer  premerses." 

Deprived  of  the  social  privileges  and 
comforts  hitherto  grudgingly  afforded  him 
by  courtesy  of  his  wide  acquaintance  in 
Pine-log  settlement,  he  began  to  thirst  for 
education.  It  is  not  certainly  known  how 
he  did  get  it,  but  in  time  he  learned  to 
read  and  write,  after  a  fashion;  and  the 
next  thing  was  to  teach  Rory,  who,  much 
to  Brimson's  chagrin,  was  anything  but  an 
apt  scholar. 

"  He  air  er  leetle  slow  an'  sort  o'  clumsy 
erbout  gittin'  at  the  main  p'ints  o'  the 
spellin'-book,"  was  Brimson's  self-consola- 
tion ;  "  but  then  w'enever  he  do  once  git 
started  he  air  er-gwine  ter  jest  knock  the 
socks  off'n  me  er-l'arnin',  see  'f  he  don't." 

They  usually  devoted  the  warm  part  of 
the  afternoon  to  the  daily  lessons,  sitting 
side  by  side  on  a  rude  wooden  bench  in  the 
shade  of  the  vine  that  almost  overloaded 
the  low,  wide,  rickety  porch  on  the  south 


144  A  RACE   ROMANCE 

side  of  Brimson's  cabin.  Through  a  rift 
they  might  have  a  fine  view  of  the  little 
valley,  or  pocket,  beyond  which  the  foot- 
hills swelled  up,  overtopped  by  the  blue 
peaks  of  the  Pine-log  range.  On  one  hand 
they  had  a  garden  and  truck  patch,  on  the 
other  a  small  area,  called  the  plantation, 
which  was  given  over  to  corn  and  wheat 
and  cotton.  In  front,  between  the  house 
and  the  little  gate  by  the  roadside,  was  the 
well  with  its  mossy  curb  and  long,  stone- 
weighted  sweep.  Brimson  was  a  small 
man,  and  as  he  sat  by  the  almost  giant 
negro,  spelling-book  in  hand,  he  looked 
the  very  embodiment  of  persistent  insigni- 
ficance. A  painter  might  have  sketched 
the  twain  as  a  study  for  an  allegorical  pic- 
ture of  the  absorption  of  one  race  by  an- 
other. The  massive  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  negro  leaned  over  the  attenuated 
white  man,  as  if  about  to  fall  upon  him 
and  crush  him,  or  as  if  on  the  point  of 
breathing   him    in    through     the   gaping. 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  I45 

voluptuous,  and  infinitely  stupid  mouth. 
Brimson,  irascibly  patient  and  hysterically 
persevering,  drilled  his  good-natured  pupil, 
day  in  and  day  out,  up  and  down  the  pages 
of  Webster's  Spelling-book,  and  back  and 
forth  through  the  mazes  of  McGuffey's 
First  Reader.  To  Rory  all  this  was  a 
sort  of  fascinating  and  yet  singularly  vexa- 
tious punishment,  to  which  he  went  with 
perfunctory  promptness  and  from  which 
he  escaped  with  a  sense  of  taking  a  deep, 
inspiring  draught  of  thankfulness.  He 
often  gazed  during  lesson-time  on  the 
slender,  bloodless  cheeks,  the  sunken  pale 
blue  eyes,  and  the  broad,  high  forehead  of 
his  master,  while  a  vague  but  powerful 
realization  of  the  Caucasian's  superb  en- 
dowments crept  through  his  benighted 
consciousness.  A  glimmer  of  ambition, 
mysteriously  moonlike  and  wan  to  Rory's 
vision,  began  to  spread  over  the  much 
thumbed  pages  of  the  books. 

"  Knowledge  air  power,"  urged  Brimson 


146  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

—  "  hit  sattingly  air,  Rory ;  an'  him  thet 
reads  air  him  thet  conquers." 

"  Dat  's  so,  mars' ;  dat  's  so,"  responded 
Rory,  his  voice  as  vacant  as  his  face. 

"  Ye  see,"  continued  Brimson,  crossing 
the  attenuated  index  finger  of  his  right 
hand  over  the  corresponding  member  of  his 
left,  and  drawing  his  earnest  little  face  into 
a  wisp  of  wrinkles  —  "  ye  see,  Rory,  this  air 
er  day  o'  liberal  idees  an'  'mazin'  progress. 
Hit  air  the  day  o'  fraternity  an'  ekal 
rights." 

"  Dat 's  so,  mars' ;  dat 's  so." 

"  The  nigger  race  '11  be  ekal  ter  any 
race  under  heving  jes'  as  soon  as  it  kin 
read  an'  write,  Rory." 

"  Dat 's  so,  mars' ;  dat 's  so." 

The  years  stole  past,  and  the  monotony 
of  life  in  Sassafras  Pocket  scarcely  varied 
a  hair's  breadth  until  the  great  war  came 
on  and  freedom  began  to  send  its  puffs  of 
freshness  and  fragrance  through  the  air  in 
advance  of  the  steadily  moving  armies  of 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  I47 

Sherman  and  Grant.  Rory,  by  some  in- 
direct flash  of  perception,  foresaw  the  com- 
ing of  emancipation  long  before  his  mas- 
ter had  dared  to  dream  of  such  a  thing ; 
but  it  brought  him  no  special  pleasure. 
Brimson  had  been  fairly  kind  to  him,  and 
there  was  something  in  the  negro's  heart 
that  drew  it  tenderly  towards  the  little  old 
man.  This  tenderness  was  neither  love 
nor  genuine  respect ;  it  was  more  a  mere 
active  quality  of  Rory's  nature.  In  fact, 
between  the  black  man  and  the  white 
there  had  long  ago  risen  a  vague  but  pow- 
erful apparition  of  danger,  which  both  had 
tried  to  brush  aside  with  sentimental  rec- 
ognition of  their  need  of  each  other. 

*'  Hit  air  inlightenment  thet  you  kin  git 
out'n  me,  Rory,  an'  hit  air  work  thet  I 
kin  git  out'n  you,"  argued  Brimson. 

"  Yah,  sah  ;  dat  's  so,"  assented  Rory. 

The  war  went  crashing  past  them,  a 
great  roaring  sea  of  flame  and  smoke  and 
blood ;  but  not  one  ripple  of  it  found  a 


148  A   RACE    ROMANCE 

way  into  the  remote  security  of  Sassafras 
Pocket.  The  Emancipation  Proclamaition 
never  reached  them,  and  peace  had  been 
established  for  months  before  they  found 
it  out. 

Meantime  Brimson's  patience  and  zeal- 
ous earnestness  in  the  cause  of  rescuing 
Rory  from  heathen  ignorance  had  risen 
to  higher  and  higher  planes  of  self-devo- 
tion; but  strangely  enough  did  the  negro 
respond.  He  developed,  it  is  true,  and 
rapidly  took  on  a  most  interesting  veneer- 
ing of  knowledge,  so  to  speak,  outstripping 
his  teacher  at  certain  turns  of  the  race,  and 
evincing  now  and  again  a  most  wonderful 
acumen;  and  yet  the  barbaric  nature  within 
him  seemed  to  deepen  and  broaden  apace 
with  his  educational  acquirements.  His 
taste  for  baked  'possum  grew  more  intense, 
and  his  proficiency  in  banjo-picking  won- 
derfully increased,  as  if  his  imagination 
were  liberating  itself  altogether  along  sav- 
age lines. 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  149 

Brimson  obeyed  an  opposite  law,  grow- 
ing more  and  more  pale,  thin,  and  ner- 
vous-looking, while  his  hair  whitened  and 
his  forehead  assumed  a  more  pronounced 
scholarly  baldness,  touched  with  a  bland, 
wavering  philanthropic  sheen  which  added 
to  his  countenance,  naturally  none  too 
strong,  the  appearance  of  being  about  to 
fall  into  a  nebulous  state  of  disintegration. 

"  Ye  're  free  now,  Rory,"  he  said  one 
day,  when  at  last  the  news  had  come  to 
the  pocket,  "an'  hit  air  yer  juty  ter  show 
up  freedom  at  her  best  paces.  Look  up 
at  the  flag,  Rory;  look  up  at  the  flag  o' 
liberty  !  Hit  air  yer  flag,  Rory  —  yer  flag 
thet  yer  forefathers  fit  fer  at  Buncombe 
Hill  an'  Sarytogy  Lane !  Gaze  onto  the 
yearth,  Rory,  fer  hit  jes'  nat'rally  berlongs 
ter  ye.  Take  hit,  Rory,  an'  rule  over  hit, 
fer  ye  've  yarnt  hit  by  yer  endoorin'  intelli- 
gence an'  patriotism  ! " 

Rory  looked  up,  as  he  was  bidden,  but 
saw  no  flag ;  and  as  for  the  earth,  that  part 


150  A   RACE    ROMANCE 

of  it  visible  from  his  point  of  view  was 
merely  Sassafras  Pocket  with  its  rim  of 
purple  mountain-peaks. 

"  Hit  air  the  leadin'  doctrine  o'  moral 
ph'los'phy  thet  ter  the  victor  berlongs  the 
lands,  temptations,  an'  haryditerments," 
continued  Brimson,  mopping  his  brow ; 
"  an'  now  air  yer  time  er  never,  Rory." 

"Yah,  sah;  dat's  so,  sah,"  said  Rory. 
"  I  gwine  ter  'fleet  on  it  p'intedly,  sah." 

The  war  being  over  and  the  freedom  of 
the  colored  race  having  been  accomplished, 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Pine-log  region  be- 
gan slowly  to  relax  their  feelings  towards 
Brimson,  and  in  due  time  he  was  once 
more  received  among  the  visitors  at  the 
still-house,  albeit  he  could  feel  that  his  re- 
lations with  his  neighbors  were  yet  pretty 
violently  strained,  no  matter  what  attempts 
were  made  to  conceal  the  old  dislike.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  care  much  for  public 
opinion,  so  long  as  he  felt  that  public  opin- 
ion was  wrong  and  his  opinion  was  right ; 


A   RACE    ROMANCE  15 1 

and  now  that  his  privilege  of  free  speech 
was  no  longer  withheld,  he  enjoyed  to  the 
fullest  airing  the  philosophy  he  had  been 
storing  during  all  these  years  of  social 
exclusion  and  unremitting  study. 

"  He  air  jest  'zactly  the  same  ole  aber- 
lition  eejit  thet  he  was  afore  the  war,"  ex- 
claimed Squire  Lem  Rookey,  whose  judi- 
cial caution  had  been  somewhat  shaken 
by  the  cataclysm  of  rebellion,  "  an'  I  jest 
wush  thet  he  hed  ter  maul  rails  under  er 
nigger  boss  fer  the  next  forty-nine  years." 

"  I  hearn  Gabe  Holly  say  thet  Bud 
Peevy  tole  him  thet  Wiley  Brimson  air 
still  er-talkin'  up  nigger  soope'ority  ter 
thet  black  Rory,"  remarked  Sol  Rowe. 
"  Seem  lak  some  fellers  cayn't  I'arn  no 
sense  w'en  they  hev  the  chaince." 

The  real  truth  was  that  the  neighbor- 
hood viewed  with  surprise  the  turn  affairs 
seemed  to  be  taking  over  in  the  little 
pocket,  where  the  relations  between  the 
white  man  and  the  black,  although  greatly 


152  A    RACE    ROMANCE 

altered  in  name,  appeared  to  be  even  more 
profitable  than  under  the  old  order  of 
things.  Brimson  himself  was  inclined  to 
speak  boastfully  of  the  fact  that  it  was  no 
loss  to  him  that  Rory  had  been  made  free. 

"  Look  at  my  craps,"  he  exclaimed ; 
"  they  is  bigger  an'  better  'an  they  ever 
was  in  them  slavery  days.  Freedom  an' 
edication  hev  made  er  enlightened  laborer 
of  Rory.  He  seem  ter  take  er  wider  view 
o'  the  lay  o'  life  'an  he  did  w'en  he  war  in 
the  gallin'  chains  of  onhuman  bondage." 

Some  of  the  more  impatient  and  belli- 
cose men  of  the  settlement  could  with  diffi- 
culty brook  Brimson's  arguments  and  al- 
lusions. Personal  violence  surely  would 
have  been  indulged  in  had  it  riot  been  for 
Brimson's  age  and  physical  weakness. 

"  I  'd  slap  'im  clean  through  onto  the 
other  side  o'  hisself,  w'en  he  gits  ter  talkin' 
thet  ther'  way,  ef  he  wusn't  so  dern  puny- 
lookin',"  remarked  Bud  Peevy ;  "  but  he 
do  look  more  like  er  runt  pig  'at 's  fed  on 


A  RACE   ROMANCE  153 

buttermilk  'an  any  one  man  I  ever  see  in 
all  my  life." 

If  there  had  been  a  disinterested  on- 
looker at  Sassafras  Pocket,  the  proceed- 
ings there  would  have  furnished  him  much 
food  for  reflection  as  well  as  no  little 
amusement.  Brimson  was  pressing  edu- 
cation upon  Rory  with  ever-increasing  in- 
sistence, and  the  negro,  though  now  well 
along  in  middle  life,  was  beginning  to 
show  the  first  signs  of  genuine  advance 
towards  self-regard  in  the  matter. 

"  How  kin  dis  book-l'arnin'  eber  do  me 
any  good  ?  Ain't  I  er  nigger  all  de  same, 
arter  I  done  fill  myse'f  full  o'  dat  edica- 
tion  ? "  he  would  demand,  wagging  his 
head  half  willfully,  half  doubtfully.  "  Tell 
me  dat,  now." 

"  Wat  ef  ye  air  er  nigger  ?  Wat  do  thet 
ermount  to  ?  Ain't  the  Constertootion  of 
the  Union  done  said  'at  all  men  is  free  an' 
ekal  ?  Ain't  ye  er  man  same  as  any- 
body.?" 


154  A  RACE   ROMANCE 

"  Dat  's  SO,  boss  ;  dat  's  so." 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Rory  ever 
had  substituted  "  boss  "  for  "  mars'  "  in 
talking  to  Brimson.  The  latter  accepted 
the  change  with  all  the  secret  pleasure 
of  a  teacher  who  is  proud  of  his  work. 

"  An'  Rory,  ef  ye  r'ally  desires  the  rege- 
lar  ole  b'iled-down  essence  o'  percoon-root 
freedom,  ye  mus'  jest  re'ch  out  an'  take 
hit,"  he  went  on,  as  if  delivering  a  set  lec- 
ture to  the  negro,  who  stood  before  him  a 
black  giant  whose  massive  proportions  ap- 
peared to  be  increasing  day  by  day. 

"  Dat 's  so,  boss ;  dat 's  so.  I 's  been  er 
sorter  calc'latin'  'bout  dat  yer  lately." 

"  Well,  I  'd  s'pose  hit  war  erbout  time  ye 
was  usin'  yer  gumtion  er  leetle,"  continued 
Brimson,  excited  and  encouraged  by  Rory's 
signs  of  interest.  "  'F  I 's  you,  I  'd  take  my 
proper  position  into  sassiety,  an'  I  'd  wrest 
f'om  the  white  man  my  jus'  dues.  Wat 
hev  ye  done  all  yer  life }  Ye  've  worked 
fer  the  white  man.     W'at  hev  ye  got  fer 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  155 

hit  ?  Victuals  an'  clothes  ;  whar  'r  the 
land  ye  've  yarnt  ?  Hit  b'longs  ter  the 
white  man.  'F  I 's  you,  I  'd  take  hit  er- 
way  f'om  'im.  Ye'r'  big  an'  strong,  ye  've 
got  the  power,  an'  ye'r'  foolish  ef  ye  don't 
use  it." 

"  Dat  's  so  ;  dat  's  so  ;  I 's  'sturbin'  my 
min'  er  mighty  heap  'bout  dat  fing  lately ; 
sho  's  you  born,  I  is,  boss." 

"'Sturbin'  yer  mind,  'sturbin' yer  mind!" 
cried  Brimson,  with  eloquent  impatience. 
"  W'y  don't  ye  act  ?  W'y  don't  ye  show 
up  yer  power .?  Wat  hev  I  been  er-larnin 
ye  all  this  time  ?  " 

Gradually,  under  this  sort  of  pressure, 
Rory  lost  his  childlike  simplicity,  and  his 
bubbling,  jocund  humor  was  changed  into 
something  bordering  on  moroseness.  He 
avoided  Brimson  at  times  and  brooded 
aside,  as  if  contemplating  some  deep  and 
troublesome  problem.  Whatever  it  was,  it 
took  him  a  long  while  to  satisfy  his  mind 
in  regard  to  it ;  for  the  months  and  years 


156  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

went  by,  while  he  slowly  changed  from  a 
careless,  happy  negro  to  a  strangely  reti- 
cent savage  in  appearance.  So  gradual, 
indeed,  was  this  transformation,  or  rather 
quasi  reversion  to  type,  that  Brimson  did 
not  fully  realize  it. 

The  pocket  had  no  visitors  now,  the 
men  of  the  Pine-log  having  dropped  Brim- 
son  again  when  his  doctrines  of  "  freedom 
an'  ekality "  had  becorhe  absolutely  un- 
bearable to  them ;  and  the  two,  the  white 
and  the  black,  were  left  undisturbed,  while 
the  former  perfected  the  latter's  education 
and  engendered  in  him  the  full  measure  of 
a  doctrine  whose  immense  fascination  at 
last  overcame  every  opposition  in  his  gen- 
ial temperament  and  aroused  all  the  dor- 
mant barbarism  of  his  nature.  Not  that 
in  the  worst  sense  Rory  became  bad ;  the 
change  in  him  was  more  a  development 
of  the  ancient  strain  of  African  character, 
which  had  come  to  him  by  hereditary 
descent,  but  which  had  needed  just  this 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  1 57 

patient  drilling  by  the  white  man  to  coax 
it  up  to  something  like  ancestral  force  and 
quality. 

It  was  a  red-letter  day  for  Brimson 
when  at  last  Rory  assumed  full  equality 
with  him  by  addressing  him  as  Mr.  Brim- 
son.  It  was  done  in  a  manner  so  superb, 
too,  with  a  gesture  and  a  bodily  pose  over- 
powering to  one  of  Brimson's  nervous 
habit.  Rory  noted  the  effect  with  evident 
satisfaction,  while  Brimson  felt  a  fine  sense 
of  self-gratulation  suffused  throughout  his 
diminutive  frame.  At  last  he  had  forced 
the  light  of  high  civilization  into  the  ne- 
gro's soul,  he  thought,  and  henceforth 
Rory  would  be  a  man  and  a  brother,  im- 
bued with  all  the  subtle  forces  of  the  most 
advanced  nineteenth-century  life. 

"  No,  Mr.  Brimson ;  I  cayn't  saddle  yo' 
boss  fer  yo'  any  mo',  'ceptin'"  yo'  calls  me 
Mr.  Marting,"  said  Rory,  with  enormous 
gravity,  but  with  a  certain  imposing  awk- 
wardness which  had  its  weight. 


158  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

"  Never  heerd  afore  'at  that  war  yer 
name,"  apologized  Brimson,  as  soon  as  he 
could  find  the  words. 

"  Dat  's  hit ;  dat  's  my  name.  Mr.  Mar- 
ting,  sah;  Mr.  Marting,"  responded  Rory, 
with  great  emphasis  and  pride. 

Brimson  felt  an  almost  irresistible  swell 
of  laughter  within  him,  and,  strange  to  say, 
along  with  it  an  impulse  towards  lifting 
his  foot  and  kicking  Rory  off  the  veranda. 
What  he  did  do,  however,  was  to  say  :  — 

"  Beg  parding,  Mr.  Marting ;  but  ef  ye 
please,  sir,  fetch  out  ole  Sor'l  an'  saddle 
'im.  I  hes  er  notion  ter  go  erp  ter  the 
still-house." 

Late  on  the  evening  following,  Brimson 
returned  to  his  home  a  pretty  badly  pun- 
ished man.  He  had  talked  too  much  to 
the  wrong  person  on  his  favorite  topic. 
He  was  in  a  desperate  mood,  which  found 
vent  in  the  most  intemperate  and  sweep- 
ing emphasis  of  his  pet  opinions. 

"  'F  I 's  er  nigger,  I  '11  be  blamed  ef  I 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  159 

w'u'd  n't  rise  erp  an'  jest  nat'rally  clean 
erp  the  whole  endoorin'  white  race ! "  he 
raged  forth,  as  he  followed  Rory  down  to 
the  little  rickety  log  stable,  where  old  Sor- 
rel was  to  be  housed. 

"  Dat  's  so,  Mr.  Brimson ;  dat  's  so,"  said 
Rory.  "  Dat 's  jest  w'at  I 's  been  er  mem'- 
rizin'  w'ile  yo'  be'n  gone." 

"  I  'd  rob  em ;  I  'd  take  the'r  lan's, 
temptations,  an'  haryditerments ;  I  'd  mek 
slaves  out'n  every  two-legged  one  of  'em ; 
I  'd  pay  'em  back  fer  the'r  meanness  an' 
everlastin'  onery  cussedness,  blame  ef  I 
w'u'd  n't,  Rory,"  continued  the  white  man. 

"  Dat 's  so,  Brimson ;  dat 's  w'at  I  be'n 
er-studyin'  out  w'ile  yo'  be'n  gone  ter-day, 
Brimson,"  responded  Rory. 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  which 
went  like  a  sudden  chill  through  the  hot 
rage  of  the  quondam  master. 

As  when  a  man  has  been  lost  in  the 
woods,  and  all  at  once,  by  a  seeming  whirl, 
things   right    themselves   and    he   knows 


l6o  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

where  he  is,  Brimson  discovered  an  aston- 
ishing but  quite  natural  state  of  affairs. 

Rory  unsaddled  old  Sorrel  and  put  him 
into  the  stable ;  then  he  came  out,  shut 
the  door,  and  said  :  — 

•'  I 's  done  concluded,  Brimson,  'at  I 's 
de  boss  roun'  yeah.  So  yo'  mought  jes'  as 
well  take  yo'  med'cine  right  now !  " 

"Wat— w'at  air  the  matter,  Rory.?" 
stammered  Brimson. 

Rory  stretched  forth  his  brawny  hand, 
and,  gripping  the  white  man's  collar,  fairly 
lifted  him  from  the  ground. 

"  Brimson,"  he  growled,  "  did  n'  I  tol' 
yo'  ter  call  me  Mr.  Marting  ?  Yo'  's  gwine 
ter  ketch  it  ef  yo'  Rory  's  dis  pusson  any 
mo' !     Yo'  mem'rize  dat,  will  yo' !  " 

After  this  Brimson  was  not  seen  abroad 
in  the  Pine-log  region,  and  for  months, 
perhaps  years,  little  thought  was  given  to 
him  by  the  people.  Often  enough  Rory 
was  observed  going  to  mill  on  old  Sorrel, 
or  riding  to  and  from  the  country  town  ; 


'CALL    ME   MR.    MARTING" 


A   RACE  ROMANCE  l6l 

but  no  suspicion  of  the  true  status  over 
in  Sassafras  Pocket  was  aroused  until  one 
day  Bud  Peevy,  by  merest  accident,  dis- 
covered the  whole  thing. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  huge  fragment  of 
lichen-covered  limestone  not  far  from  the 
dim  little  trail  which  led  into  the  Pocket. 
His  gun  was  lying  across  his  knees,  and 
he  was  fretfully  wondering  what  had  be- 
come of  the  brindle  cow  he  had  been  look- 
ing for,  when  a  voice,  accompanied  by  the 
sound  of  shuffling  feet,  came  to  his  ears 
from  some  point  above  him. 

"  Hit  jest  do  beat  de  bery  debbil  how  I 
hab  ter  war  my  feets  off  clean  up  ter  de 
ankles  er-runnin'  af'er  yo',  blame  yo'  ole 
hide ! " 

The  voice  was  a  negro's,  strong,  soft, 
vibrant,  full  of  the  peculiar  African  timbre. 
It  was  resolute,  brimming  with  self-asser- 
tion, and  yet,  in  a  way,  it  was  suggestive 
of  something  like  what  one  might  call 
brutal  tenderness.      "  De  bery   nex'    time 


l62  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

'at  yo'  runs  erway  I  jes'  gwine  ter  w'ar  yo' 
out!     Ye'  see  'f  I  don',  Brimson." 

The  footfalls  came  nearer,  but  the  dense 
foliage  shut  out  from  Peevy's  view  every- 
thing more  than  instantaneous  glimpses 
of  the  approaching  forms  of  two  men. 

"  Dar  's  dat  co'n  jes'  er-gittin'  ready  ter 
be  hoed,  an'  dar  's  dem  dar  'bacco  plants 
jes'  ready  ter  be  sot  out,  an'  yar  yo'  is  er- 
runnin'  erway  ag'in,  dog  gone  yo'  !  " 

Peevy  craned  his  long,  lean  neck  to  see, 
if  possible,  what  strange  thing  was  about 
to  appear,  but  he  was  not  altogether  pre- 
pared for  that  which  presently  emerged 
from  the  grove  and  passed  along  the  little 
road  not  a  rod  from  him. 

"  Git  erlong  yar,  I  toF  yo' ! "  continued 
the  resonant  voice.  "  'Fo'  de  Lor',  I  jest 
erbout  cut  yo'  all  ter  pieces  wid  dis  yar 
whorp  fust  ting  yo'  knows !  W'a'  yo' 
be'n  ter  all  dis  time,  anyhow?  Yo'  look 
poorty  now,  don'  yo' }  S'pose  I  's  gwine 
let  yo'  go  er-feeshin'  eber'  day,  does  yo'  ? " 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  163 

Peevy  noticed  that  a  bluejay  in  a  thorn- 
bush  just  beyond  the  road  was  preparing 
to  fly  away,  and  by  this  sign  he  knew  that 
the  men  would  soon  appear. 

"  Wat  I  feed  yo'  fer,  an'  w'at  I  furnish 
yo'  dem  dar  clo's  fer,  'ceptin'  yo'  gwine  ter 
wo'k  fer  me?  Who  yo'  b'long  ter  any- 
how ;  tell  me  dat,  won't  you  ?  Yo'  eats 
more  'n  ary  two  peegs  an'  fo'  mules,  an'  'en 
yo'  jes'  don'  want  ter  wo'k  one  libin'  lick. 
Bet  I  's  gwine  ter  mek  yo'  fink  yo'  hide 
done  made  out'n  red  pepper  an'  smartin'- 
weeds  'fo'  I 's  got  done  wid  yo' !  Walk 
'long  libely." 

Certain  sharp  sounds,  as  if  from  heavy 
blows  laid  on  with  a  long  limber  stick 
or  rod,  emphasized  these  vocal  perform- 
ances. Peevy  felt  a  strange  thrill  run 
through  his  nerves.  The  bluejay  sud- 
denly left  its  thorn-bush  and  flew  away 
like  a  shimmering  blue  streak  through  the 
light  mountain  air. 

"  Lif  dem  foots  libely ;  lif  'em  mo'  'an 


l64  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

libely !  Git  erp  an'  waddle,  blame  yo'  ol' 
hide,  er  I  jest  p'intedly  '11  frail  de  whole 
laigs  off' n  yo'  clean  up  ter  yo'  gallusses ! 
Lif  dem  foots,  I  says,  er  I  gwine  raise  'em 
fer  yo'  wid  dis  yar  hick'ry,  see  'f  I  don't !  " 

The  first  figure  that  broke  from  the 
dusky  cover  of  the  wood  was  the  form  of  a 
small,  lean  old  man,  whose  thin,  white 
locks  were  laid  in  sleek  strands  across  a 
bald  spot  on  his  head,  and  whose  high 
forehead  was  wrinkled  into  a  network  of 
most  appealing  worry  and  fright.  He 
wore  no  hat,  but  in  one  hand  he  carried 
a  dilapidated  bell-crowned  straw  tile,  while 
in  the  other,  tightly  clutched,  rested  a  long 
cane  fishing-rod,  from  which  dangled  a 
short,  much  tangled  line,  and  his  counte- 
nance, drawn,  shrunken,  and  pathetic,  ex- 
pressed with  more  power  than  any  form  of 
words  could  the  dread  he  felt  of  the 
storming  negro  behind  him. 

"  I 's  gwine  ter  mek  de  dus'  rise  out'n  yo' 
gyarments  tell  yo'  fink  some  pusson  done 


A   RACE   ROMANCE  165 

built  er  fire  under  'em  an'  dey  's  smokin' 
like  er  tah  kiln  !  " 

Along  with  this  gush  of  vehement  rage 
out  came  Rory  in  close  pursuit  of  the 
panting  white  man,  whom  Peevy  now  rec- 
ognized as  Wiley  Brimson. 

The  negro  bore  in  his  hand  a  long,  flex- 
ible hickory  gad,  the  end  of  which  was 
much  frayed  from  the  effect  of  rapid  blows 
delivered  with  it  on  the  ground  close  to 
the  heels  of  his  scudding  victim.  The 
pursuer  was  in  a  state  of  such  concen- 
trated earnestness  of  purpose  that  he 
looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
but  held  his  massive  shoulders  very  high, 
at  the  same  time  thrusting  his  head  forward 
and  downward.  The  tuft  of  grizzled  woolly 
beard  on  his  chin  was  flecked  with  the 
foam  of  his  strenuous  scolding.-  His  strides 
were  melodramatic  in  their  length  and 
swing,  while  the  collapsed  brim  of  his  old 
hat  flapped  energetically  to  the  motion  of 
his  muscular  body. 


l66  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

Something  poetically  savage,  like  a  sug- 
gestion from  Homer,  or  like  a  thought 
half-expressed  by  some  ancient,  rude  in- 
scription, beamed  from  that  corrugated 
African  face.  Browning  might  have  set 
such  a  sketch  in  verse ;  Giotto  could  have 
fixed  it  on  a  panel.  Even  Peevy  was 
aware  of  its  significance,  as  the  white  man, 
passing  him,  flung  out  towards  him  a 
quick,  appealing,  despairing  glance. 

"  Keep  yo'  nose  straight  afore  yo',  er  I 's 
gwine  ter  wa'm  yo'  laigs  tell  yo'  feels  lak 
yo'  's  er-wadin'  in  b'ilin'  tah  up  ter  yo' 
wais',  wid  er  red-hot  eel  er-floppin'  roun' 
yo'  blame  spindlin'  shanks !  Git  erlong,  I 
toleyo'!" 

An  indescribable  expression  came  into 
Peevy's  face  as  he  watched  this  strange  pro- 
cession go  by  in  the  direction  of  Sassafras 
Pocket  and  disappear  amid  the  low-hang- 
ing sprays  of  the  wood.  The  voice  came 
bellowing  back  from  time  to  time,  gradu- 
ally modified  by  distance  and  intervening 


A  RACE   ROMANCE  167 

objects,  until,  at  last,  mellow  and  far,  it  had 
something  of  lyric  softness  in  its  notes. 

"  Hate  ter  be  erbleeged  ter  frail  de  pelt 
clean  off'n  yo',  Brimson,  an'  hab  yo'  gwine 
roun'  yer  like  er  fresh-skinned  possum ; 
but  ef  yo'  will  run  erway,  w'y,  I  s'pose  I 's 
got  ter  let  yo'  hab  it  in  yarnest.  Hustle 
erlong  yah,  I  tole  yo'!  I  cayn't  stan'  no 
foolin' ! " 

The  strokes  of  the  gad  upon  the  ground, 
given  with  rhythmical  regularity,  made  a 
sort  of  rude  counterpoint  which  added  a 
singular  effect  to  the  now  but  faintly  echo- 
ing strains. 

Presently  silence  closed  in  and  was  not 
broken  till  the  bluejay  came  chattering 
back  to  its  thorn-bush,  where  it  shone  like 
a  gem  amid  the  tender  green  sprays. 

Peevy  drew  a  deep  breath  and  began  to 
chuckle  reflectively  as  he  rubbed  the  long, 
heavy  barrel  of  his  gun  with  his  sleeve. 

"  Jest  'zac'ly  as  I  'spected,"  he  said  to 
himself,   pausing  to   puff   out  his  gaunt. 


l68  A   RACE   ROMANCE 

thinly  bearded  cheeks;  *' thet  thar  nigger 
hev  finally  tuk  the  hint !  "  He  shook  his 
head  and  shut  one  eye.  "  S'pose  hit 's 
edication  er  workin'  out !  " 

Once  more  Rory's  voice,  favored  by  a 
gentle  current  of  wind,  came  distinctly 
back  to  him. 

"  Now  yo'  jes'  grab  dat  hoe  poorty  libely, 
ole  feller,  an'  git  inter  dat  co'n  patch  mighty 
sudden,  er  I  's  gwine  ter  'bout  finish  yo' 
erp.  Drap  dat  fish-pole,  I  tole  yo' !  Drap 
it,  I  says!" 

Peevy  arose  and  shouldered  his  gun 
preparatory  to  making  further  and  more 
diligent  search  for  the  brindle  cow.  As 
he  walked  away  he  continued  to  chuckle 
at  intervals  in  that  dry  manner  known  to 
mountaineers. 

"  Hit  don't  take  quite  alius  ter  edicate 
er  nigger  ;  hit  air  mos'ly  er  matter  o'  stick- 
in'  ter  it,  as  Brimson  hev  —  Thar 's  that 
thar  dern  cow,  now !  " 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

The  founder  of  a  school  of  thought,  the 
originator  of  a  new  strain  in  art,  or  the 
discoverer  in  the  domain  of  science —  any 
one  of  these  is  a  tempting  subject  for  an 
essay ;  but  I  hesitate  to  begin,  although  I 
feel  sure  of  the  unusual  interest  that  the 
story  of  Rack  Dillard's  life  and  labors  must 
command.  Were  it  possible  to  set  the 
man  before  the  world,  to  be  flesh  and  blood, 
not  even  the  most  cunning  art  could  add 
to  the  effect,  for  Rack  Dillard  was  a  genius 
of  no  doubtful  quality,  as  a  few  of  the 
world's  keenest  intellects  have  already 
found  out. 

He  was  a  black  negro  slave,  illiterate  of 
course,  or  nearly  so  ;  a  lover  of  tobacco  ;  a 
Baptist  in  faith,  and  yet  somewhat  given 
to  the  use  of  profane  language.     Presently 


I70  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

you  shall  see  that  he  was  the  general  type 
of  his  race, —  a  personal  forecast  of  the 
influence  to  be  exerted  by  slavery  upon  the 
civilization  which  was  to  follow  in  the  wake 
of  freedom.  His  genius  was  but  a  slender 
strain,  it  is  true,  and  the  results  of  his  labors 
appear  slight ;  but  we  must  keep  our  stand- 
ard just  while  we  measure.  He  was  a 
slave  throughout  the  flower  of  his  life, 
drawing  not  one  breath  of  absolute  liberty 
before  he  was  seventy  years  old,  unable  to 
read  or  write  until  after  he  was  seventy- 
six,  and  quite  ignorant  of  the  simplest  ele- 
ments of  mathematics  even  when  he  died 
in  triumph  at  the  ripe  old  age  of  eighty- 
three.  And  yet  he  occupies  a  high  place, 
despite  the  extreme  restrictions  and  rigid 
limitations  of  his  life.  You  will  note  that 
I  say  a  high  place  now,  for  his  elevation, 
as  has  been  the  case  too  often  with  genius, 
was  not  reached  until  after  his  death,  which 
took  place  in  1872,  at  his  humble  little 
home  in  Rabun  County,  Georgia.    Pilgrim 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  171 

devotees  of  the  new  school  in  art,  enthusi- 
astic followers  of  the  latest  form  of  science, 
are  beginning  to  make  Rack  Dillard's 
grave  a  shrine ;  and  the  man  who  owns 
the  rude  cabin  where  this  remarkable  ne- 
gro lived  and  worked  so  long  is  making  a 
handsome  income  by  demanding  of  every 
visitor  a  small  fee,  for  the  privilege  of  en- 
tering. 

Last  spring,  returning  from  a  sojourn  at 
Bay  Saint  Louis,  I  bent  my  course  so  as 
to  spend  a  week  in  the  region  made  classic 
by  Lanier,  —  the  high  hill  country  through 
whose  valleys  and  gorges  flow,  with  here 
a  purple  pool  and  there  a  foaming  cata- 
ract, the  two  most  beautiful  rivers  in  the 
world,  the  Tallulah  and  the  Ulufta.  It 
was  not  to  verify  Lanier's  musical  descrip- 
tion, however,  that  I  went  up  through  the 
valleys  of  Hall  into  the  heart  of  the  Blue 
Ridge.  The  tender  jingle  of  the  poet's 
rhymes  may  have  been  in  my  ears, — 
doubtless  it  was,  —  but  my  thoughts  were 


1/2  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

busy  with  the  revolution  that  Rack  Dil- 
lard  had  wrought  in  a  certain  domain  of 
art  and  with  the  effect  he  had  upon  one  of 
the  greatest  forces  in  our  civilization.  I 
felt  the  picturesqueness,  and,  if  I  may  say 
it,  the  fitness  of  the  sketch  I  might  make 
out  of  the  materials  of  the  old  negro's  life. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  the  world  had  not 
done  its  duty  by  him,  and  that  his  influ- 
ence, while  it  had  been  made  the  most  of 
by  a  few  enthusiasts,  had  not  been  properly 
acknowledged  in  a  public  way.  It  is  true, 
as  I  have  said,  that  certain  zealous  and 
highly  enlightened  men  and  women,  mostly 
Southerners,  to  their  credit  be  it  said,  have 
formed  a  quiet  but  efficient  society  devoted 
to  the  study  of  Dillard's,  or,  as  it  is  usually 
called,  Rack's  philosophy,  and  some  of  the 
members  make  pilgrimages  to  Rack's  grave; 
still  the  world  has  been  kept  in  ignorance 
of  him  for  whom  the  cult  exists  and  by 
whom  the  school  was  founded. 

The  mountains  of  Rabun  County  are,  I 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  173 

believe,  the  cerebral  part  of  the  great  Blue 
Ridge,  the  vertebral  column,  the  culmi- 
nation, the  flower  of  what  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  interesting  chain  of  upheaval  in 
America.  The  region  is  an  extremely  dry, 
isolated,  and  lonely  one,  with  every  ele- 
ment in  its  air,  its  quietude,  and  its  stabil- 
ity of  conditions  to  make  it  a  congenial 
habitat  for  Philosophy.  Naturally  it 
would  be  hard  for  news  to  escape  from 
such  a  place,  and,  besides,  mountain  peo- 
ple are  uncommunicative  to  an  exasper- 
ating degree. 

That  Rack  Dillard,  the  first  man  of 
science  (both  chronologically  and  in  point 
of  eminence)  given  by  the  negro  race  of 
America — that  this  preeminent,  though 
illiterate,  savant  should  have  spent  his 
whole  length  of  days  in  the  foothills  by 
the  rocky  banks  of  the  Ulufta,  a  slave  most 
of  the  time,  —  for  more  than  threescore 
and  ten  years  as  I  have  said,  —  is  a  ro- 
mance which  grips  the  imagination  more 


174  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

engagingly  than  can  any  story  of  trouba- 
dour or  any  chronicle  of  the  age  of  heroes 
and  gods. 

Dillard's  cabin,  kept  now  by  a  shrewd 
Yankee  for  gain,  is  reached  by  a  narrow 
clay  road,  slipping  away  from  the  pretty 
mountain  village  of  Clayton  and  winding 
its  course  like  a  brick-red  serpent  through 
a  dry,  rugged,  often  picturesque  country. 
As  one  advances,  the  character  of  the 
landscape  assumes  that  composite  quality 
so  attractive  to  the  artist  and  the  geologist. 
The  road,  slowly  shrinks,  as  a  river  that 
loses  itself  in  sand,  and  at  last  becomes  a 
mere  shadowy  path,  leaf-strewn  and  bough- 
shaded,  drawn  through  the  stony,  brushy, 
silent  hills  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
known  locally  by  the  appropriate  but  not 
over-euphonious  name  of  the  Hog  Back. 

For  some  distance  before  reaching  the 
Dillard  cabin,  or,  as  it  is  better  known, 
Rack's  house,  one  follows  the  course  of  the 
beautiful  Ulufta,  with  the  bubbling  water 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  175 

on  one  side  of  him  and  the  tumbling,  dis- 
torted, and  rock-pierced  foothills  on  the 
other.  If  he  is  a  sportsman  and  has 
brought  his  tackle  with  him,  here  are  pools 
and  swirls  whereon  he  shall  not  cast  a  fly- 
in  vain,  since  every  stone  in  the  stream 
has  a  shadow  in  which  lurks  a  bass.  The 
man  of  science  will  find  much  to  study  on 
every  hand,  and  the  artist  could  not  ask 
for  a  more  varied  and  fascinating  field  for 
his  sketch-book  and  pencil.  As  for  my- 
self, somewhat  given  to  the  practices  of 
the  sportsman,  the  artist,  and  the  votary  of 
science,  all  in  turn,  not  a  step  of  the  way 
failed  to  interest  me  vividly.  Looking 
back  at  it  now,  the  little  journey  fills  me 
with  a  sense  of  the  picturesque  and  the  ro- 
mantic, touched  with  a  dry,  arid,  preserva- 
tive quality  quite  indescribable,  yet  distinct. 
The  huge  fragmentary  rocks  with  their 
sear  gray  lichens  worn,  like  faded  rosettes, 
upon  their  imperishable  breasts ;  the  trees, 
now  stunted,  now  very   tall,   as   the   soil 


176  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

varied  or  the  species  alternated,  touched 
with  green  and  yellowish  mosses  near  the 
ground  ;  the  sound  of  the  breeze  overhead, 
and  the  murmur  of  the  river  here  or  a 
spring-stream  there ;  the  fragrance  of  open- 
ing buds  and  springing  spathes ;  the 
voices  of  birds,  many  of  them  migrants, 
like  myself,  dallying  for  a  day  or  two  — 
all  these,  with  glimpses  of  high  precipices 
and  far  blue  peaks,  the  whole  overarched 
with  a  tender,  almost  violet  sky,  linger 
with  me,  as  vague  as  a  dream,  as  real  as 
the  furniture  in  my  study,  making  up  one 
of  the  most  striking  and  perpetually  differ- 
entiated impressions  set  in  my  memory. 

When  at  last  one  turns  aside  from  what 
by  courtesy  is  the  main  road,  he  approaches 
Dillard's  cabin  from  the  west,  the  gravelly 
bed  of  a  bright  brooklet  serving  as  guide. 
The  structure  appears  to  lean  for  support 
against  the  face  of  a  perpendicular  cliff 
whose  fringe  of  cedars,  stunted  and  gnarled, 
overtops  the  decaying  and  mossy  roof  that 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  1/7 

slants  forward  so  as  to  cover  a  rude  porch 
or  veranda  in  front,  near  which  stands  the 
stump  of  an  old  mulberry-tree.  Thanks 
to  the  keen  business  sense  of  the  Yankee, 
the  place  has  been  kept  just  as  Rack  left 
it,  with  all  its  furniture  and  belongings 
intact. 

From  the  cabin  door  a  well-worn  path 
curves  round  the  corner  of  the  escarpment 
and  turns  over  the  hill-spur  to  the  much 
more  pretentious  dwelling  formerly  owned 
and  occupied  by  Rack's  master,  Judge 
Spivey  Dillard,  a  somewhat  eccentric  man,^ 
who  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life  de- 
voted all  his  time  in  a  way  to  biological 
investigations  and  to  reading  the  works  of 
Darwin,  Owen,  Macgillivray,  and  Alfred 
Wallace.  He  was  a  bachelor,  living  alone, 
surrounded  with  such  luxury  as  he  cared 
for,  leaving  to  his  slaves  the  management 
of  a  valuable  plantation  in  bottom  lands  of 
the  Ulufta  River. 

Rack  was  about  sixty  years  old  when 


178  A   DUSKY  GENIUS 

his  master  retired  him  from  active  field 
work  and  permitted  him  to  assume  the 
lighter  duties  of  a  house  servant — a  man 
of  chores,  to  come  from  his  cabin  at  any 
moment,  day  or  night,  rain  or  shine,  when- 
ever the  judge  blew  a  blast  upon  a  small 
tin  horn  kept  for  the  purpose. 

Doubtless  it  was  from  his  master,  who 
as  his  years  increased  became  more  and 
more  inclined  to  scientific  garrulousness, 
that  Rack  caught  the  first  suggestion 
which  led  to  his  singular,  and  under  the 
circumstances  successful,  career  in  a  slen- 
der but  interesting  course  of  science  and 
art. 

The  earliest  intimation  of  the  negro's 
work  in  his  chosen  line  came  to  the  judge 
one  day  when  he  blew  his  horn  and  for 
the  first  time  Rack  failed  to  answer  the 
summons.  A  second  blast  had  no  better 
effect,  and  a  third  echoed  away  through 
the  woods  without  response.  Judge  Dil- 
lard  felt  sure  that  his  faithful  servant  had 


JUDGE   DILLARD 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  1/9 

met  with  some  ill,  and  acting  upon  the 
moment's  impulse,  hastened  over  to  Rack's 
cabin,  where  he  found  the  old  fellow  in  a 
rapt  state,  seated  on  his  sheepskin  stool 
under  the  then  flourishing  mulberry-tree. 
The  judge  thought  that  Rack  was  asleep ; 
the  suggestion  engendered  rage. 

"Rack,  what  do  you  mean  here,  you 
lazy  old  lubber  you  ?  I  '11  wear  you  as 
thin  as  a  hand-saw  in  half  a  minute ! "  he 
exclaimed,  rushing  upon  the  negro  and 
shaking  him  till  he  fairly  rattled. 

Rack  bounced  up  and  drew  in  a  deep, 
gasping  breath. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  answer  that  horn,  you 
old  vagabond  ?  "  continued  the  judge,  giv- 
ing Rack  two  or  three  resounding  cuffs. 
"  Tell  me,  or  I  '11  mash  every  ultimate 
molecule  in  the  tissues  of  your  body!" 

Rack  dodged,  grunted,  and  gasped  again, 
getting  his  breath  as  a  man  who  comes  out 
of  a  plunge  in  cold  water. 

"  Lost  your  tongue, have  you?  "  the  judge 


l8o  A  DUSKY  GENIUS 

went  on,  still  cuffing  vigorously.  "  I  '11 
stir  up  your  nerve-cells  and  jar  your  gan- 
glions into  activity ;  I  '11  knock  all  your 
foramens  into  one ;  I  '11  make  magma  of 
you ;  I  '11  reduce  you  to  protoplasmic 
pulp  ! " 

The  negro  soon  got  himself  together, 
and  tore  away  from  his  master's  grasp. 
His  voice  came  to  him  at  the  same  time, 
and  it  was  no  child's  voice. 

"  Stop  dat !  stop  dat !  "  he  exclaimed, 
dodging  meantime  sundry  blows  and  kicks. 
"  Yo'  don'  know  w'at  yo'  doin',  Mars'  Spi- 
vey ;  'fo'  de  Lor',  yo'  don' ! " 

But  the  judge  did  not  stop  until  quite 
out  of  breath  and  otherwise  exhausted. 
He  had  managed  to  hurt  himself  much 
more  than  he  had  punished  the  negro,  and 
now,  panting  and  glaring,  he  sank  upon 
the  stool,  his  grizzled  beard  quivering  and 
his  hat  awry. 

"  I 's  pow'ful  s'prise  at  yo',  Mars'  Spivey ; 
'fo'  Gor,  I  is,"  Rack  remarked,  wiping  the 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  l8l 

perspiration  from  his  face  with  his  sleeve, 
while,  with  his  feet  apart,  he  squared  him- 
self in  front  of  the  judge.  "  Wen  yo'  bus' 
in  on  dat  ca'c'lation  o'  mine,  yo'  jes'  eber- 
lastin'  did  play  de  bery  debil  wid  er  'ves- 
tigation  ob  science,  I   tell  yo'." 

Judge  Dillard's  fiery  eyes,  still  bent  upon 
his  servant's  face,  shot  forth  a  queer  gleam 
as  Rack  uttered  the  word  "  science."  Prob- 
ably if  he  had  not  been  so  very  blown  and 
tired  he  would  have  renewed  his  assault 
and  battery,  but  the  sheepskin  stool,  with 
its  deep,  soft  fleece,  was  a  restful  seat. 

"  Wen  yo'  begin  yo'  wo'k  onto  me  jes' 
now,"  Rack  went  on,  "  er-thumpin'  me  ober 
de  head,  an'  er-whangin'  me  in  de  face  an' 
eyes,  an'  er-jerkin'  de  bery  liver  and  lights 
out'n  me,  I 's  jes'  at  dat  time  ready  ter 
re'ch  fo'  a  'elusion  in  biorology,  an'  yo' 
knock  it  plumb  frough  me  an'  stomp  it 
inter  de  ye'th." 

By  this  time  the  judge  had  recollected 
what  it  was  that  he  wanted  of  Rack. 


I82  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

"  You  just  biology  off  to  the  stable,  and 
take  Bald  Eagle  "  —  that  was  his  saddle- 
horse  — "  over  to  the  blacksmith's  shop 
and  have  his  shoes  reset,  and.  Rack,  the 
very  next  time  that  you  go  to  sleep  and 
don't  hear  my  horn  I  '11  take  you  down 
country  and  sell  you,  see  if  I  don't !  "  He 
delivered  this  order,  set  with  the  sting  of 
the  most  terrible  threat  known  to  an  up- 
country  slave,  in  a  tone  which  made  Rack's 
soul  shiver.  The  negro  stood  not  on  the 
manner  of  his  going,  but  went  forthwith  to 
do  the  task  assigned  him. 

Judge  Dillard  remained  on  the  soft  stool, 
and,  leaning  his  head  against  the  cool  bark 
of  the  mulberry-tree,  gazed  idly  up  into  the 
thick,  dark  foliage,  now  splashed  with  the 
soft  purple  of  ripening  berries.  His  recent 
exertion  and  excitement  had  left  him  quite 
averse  to  further  physical  or  mental  effort ; 
indeed,  the  reaction  gradually  engendered 
in  him  that  dreamy,  misty  mood  which  in 
its   soothing  restfulness  is  next  to  sleep. 


A  DUSKY  GENIUS  183 

A  woodpecker,  with  a  black  jacket  and  a 
scarlet  head,  came  and  alighted  on  a  cor- 
ner of  the  cabin  roof  where  a  course  pro- 
jected. It  eyed  the  judge  a  moment,  then 
beat  a  fine  rolling  tattoo  on  the  resonant 
end  of  a  warped  board.  The  sound  was  a 
peculiar  one,  double  in  its  nature,  the  sec- 
ond or  undertone  being  a  strange,  vibrant 
strain,  sweet  as  the  softest  note  of  flute  or 
violin.  The  judge's  ears  were  in  just  the 
most  receptive  condition ;  the  vague,  sweet 
ringing  chord  flowed  in  and  spread  through- 
out his  senses.  A  mocking-bird  had  been 
flitting  about  in  the  mulberry-tree  over- 
head, and  the  judge  noticed  that  it  had 
the  peculiar  habit  of  fetching  mulberries 
to  a  certain  point  on  a  stout  bough,  where 
it  thrust  them  into  a  small  pit  or  knot-hole, 
and,  after  churning  them  for  a  little  while 
with  its  beak,  drank  their  rich  subacid 
juice. 

To  the  half-dreaming  man  of  science  ob- 
servations of  this  nature  were  distantly  sug- 


I84  A  DUSKY   GENIUS 

gestive.  His  lips  moved,  and  he  murmured, 
"  Strange  that  while  the  harsh-voiced  mela- 
nerpes  erythrocephalus  is  drawing  aboriginal 
music  from  a  fragment  of  pinus  mitis,  the 
silver-tongued  mimus  polyglottus  is  content 
to  make  cider  from  the  insipid  fruit  of  morus 
rubra''  At  the  sound  of  his  words  both 
birds  flew  away  as  if  terribly  frightened. 

The  judge  was  a  good-hearted  man, 
though  rather  hasty-tempered,  and  when 
his  calmer  mind  began  to  contemplate  the 
treatment  given  Rack  a  while  ago,  a  twinge 
of  remorse  shot  through  it.  He  recalled, 
with  a  vague  sense  of  its  extreme  novelty, 
the  fact  that  Rack  had  claimed,  and  with 
intense  seriousness,  that  his  lapse  from 
duty  had  been  owing  to  complete  absorp- 
tion in  a  scientific  investigation.  The 
judge  chuckled  heartily,  then  became 
grave,  as  the  phases  of  the  situation  passed 
from  ludicrous  to  pathetic.  What  if,  after 
all,  a  negro  could  comprehend  and  follow 
the  golden   threads   of   biological  study  .f* 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  185 

What  if  he,  Judge  Spivey  Dillard,  jurist 
and  scientist,  had  thumped  and  cuffed  and 
pounded  a  man,  black  though  he  was  and 
born  slave,  just  at  the  moment  when  a 
mystery  of  life  was  beginning  to  make  it- 
self comprehensible  to  his  understanding  ? 
The  thought  was  heavy  with  suggestions 
over  which  the  judge  pondered  deep  and 
long ;  then  he  slept,  leaning  heavily  against 
the  tree,  while  the  dry  mountain  air  fanned 
his  furrowed  face  and  shook  the  grizzled 
beard  that  fringed  his  lank  jaws  and  pro- 
truding chin.  Through  his  slumber  fell 
the  sweet  bouquet  of  the  luscious  berries 
and  the  tender  rustle  of  the  broad  leaves. 
The  woodpecker  returned  again  and  again 
to  sound  a  bar  or  two  of  his  queer  music 
on  the  old  warped  board,  and  the  mock- 
ing-bird ventured  back  to  the  little  pit 
wherein  he  churned  his  mulberries  and 
made  his  fragrant  wine. 

Judge  Dillard  awoke  just  as  Rack  came 
shuffling  down  the  path,  returning  from 


l86  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

doing  his  errand.  The  old  gentleman 
heard  the  familiar  footfalls,  rubbed  his 
eyes,  yawned,  and  stretched  himself.  Rack, 
lifting  both  hands  and  expanding  his  eyes 
dramatically,  exclaimed :  — 

"Well,  'fo'  de  Lor',  Mars'  Spivey!  yo' 
loungin'  roun'  yer  yit  ?  Wha'  gwine  hap- 
pen nex',  I  wonder  ?  Been  'sleep  all  dis 
time?" 

The  judge  yawned  again,  but  he  was 
eyeing  Rack  keenly,  as  if  to  look  through 
and  through  him.  The  old  slave  noted 
this  with  misgiving,  secretly  fearing,  in- 
deed, that  something  was  going  to  be  said 
on  the  subject  of  a  hand  of  fine  leaf  to- 
bacco that  he  had  surreptitiously  ab- 
stracted from  his  master's  store  not  long 
since ;  but  the  judge  merely  remarked  that 
he  had  been  feeling  a  trifle  drowsy,  and 
then  added :  — 

"  Sit  down  there.  Rack,"  indicating  a 
corner  of  the  porch-floor.  "  I  want  to  in- 
terrogate you  touching  biology." 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  187 

It  would  be  tedious  and  quite  uninstruc- 
tive  to  insert  here  the  long  dialogue  that 
ensued  between  the  judge  and  his  slave. 
The  almost  unpronounceable  words,  the 
Greek  and  Latin  phrases,  and  the  Dar- 
winian quotations  indulged  in  by  the  white 
man,  were  thoroughly  equilibrated  by  the 
savage  interpretation  of  them  rendered  by 
the  negro.  To  say  that  Rack  reveled  in 
the  conversation  would  be  but  a  shadowy 
expression  of  the  truth.  Indeed,  his  enjoy- 
ment was  ecstatic,  even  excruciating,  as 
was  proved  by  his  bodily  writhing  and  his 
facial  contortions.  For  how  many  long 
years  had  he  been  furtively  catching  de- 
tached bits  of  his  master's  learning,  grow- 
ing hungrier  and  thirstier  day  by  day  for 
the  full  draught  he  was  now  taking  in! 
Every  precious  word  of  the  jargon  of 
science  caught  by  his  ears  had  been  held 
in  the  tenacious  grip  of  memory.  He  had 
crooned  over  them  in  the  depth  of  the 
night ;  he  had  sung  them  in  the  field ;  he 


l88  A   DUSKY  GENIUS 

had  conned  them  while  hunting  the  fa- 
mous 'possum  of  the  Ulufta  valley,  until 
they  had  entered  into  the  innermost  fibres 
of  his  life,  so  to  speak,  and  been  assimi- 
lated perfectly  without  being  in  the  least 
digested. 

Nor  was  Judge  Spivey  Dillard  less 
charmed  than  his  slave  with  the  occasion 
current.  He  came  near  forgetting  to  ask 
Rack  for  further  explanation  of  the  alleged 
investigation  which  had  led  to  the  recent 
encounter ;  but  he  caught  himself  just  in 
time.  Rack  was  ready,  nay  eager  to  en- 
lighten his  master. 

"  Well,  sah,  Mars'  Spivey,"  he  began, 
crossing  his  index  fingers  in  front  of  him, 
"  dat  wa'  er  ques'ion  ob  de  general  aberage 
ob  ci'cumstances  ;  or,  speakin'  mo'  plainer, 
it  wa'  jes'  dis :  what  air  de  biorology  ob  de 
singin'-boa'd,  an'  er  mockin'-bird  'at  feeds 
er  mu'berry  limb,  an'  er'  possum  w'at  go 
out,  jes'  like  er  can'le  w'en  yo'  blow  it?" 

The  judge,  more  from  long  habit  than 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  189 

from  any  desire  to  have  this  apparently 
absurd  proposition  simplified,  straightened 
himself  up  a  little,  and  said :  — 

"  Repeat  that  statement,  Rack." 

"  Ce'tainly,  sah,  ce'tainly ;  I  gwine  mek 
it  reas'n'ble  ter  yo'  gum'tion,  'mejetly,  sah," 
responded  the  negro,  lifting  one  forefinger 
and  tapping  the  other  with  it. 

"  It 's  dis  here  way :  dey  's  er  dry  old 
boa'd  'at  kin  sing  er  chune ;  dey 's  er 
mockin'-bird  w'at  feeds  er  mu'berry  limb; 
an'  dey  's  er  wollopin'  great  big  old  'pos- 
sum 'at  kin  jes  fade  right  out  an'  tu'n  hese'f 
inter  nothin'  w'ile  yo'  's  er-lookin'  at  'im. 
Dat  's  w'at  I  done  been  er-'vestigatin'  w'en 
yo'  try  ter  tah  me  all  ter  pieces  dis  mo'nin' ; 
an'  jes  as  yo'  light  outer  me  I  was  er-j'in- 
in'  dem  fac's  tergedder  an'  jes'  er-re'chin' 
out  fo'  de  aberage  ob  'im.  Mighty  sorry 
yo'  do  dat,  Mars'  Spivey ;  it  gwine  ter  be 
er  great  loss  ter  biorology,  sah,  sho  's  yo' 
bo'n,  sah." 

The  judge  was  disgusted  in  one  sense, 


190  A   DUSKY  GENIUS 

and  in  another  he  was,  strange  to  say, 
deeply  interested.  He  was  curious  to 
know  just  what  Rack  meant  by  a  singing- 
board,  a  mocking-bird  that  fed  a  mul- 
berry limb,  and  a  'possum  that  could  ren- 
der itself  invisible  at  will.  Pursuing  this 
curiosity,  he  catechized  the  negro  after 
the  artful  manner  of  a  lawyer  to  the  busi- 
ness born.  Rack  was  slow  to  give  up  his 
secret,  but,  bit  by  bit,  the  judge  drew  out 
the  whole  of  it.  The  singing-board  was 
the  one  in  the  cabin's  roof  upon  which 
the  woodpecker  beat  its  long  roll  in  the 
morning.  The  under-hum  of  that  sono- 
rous piece  of  wood  was  still  softly  rever- 
berating in  the  judge's  ears.  The  mock- 
ing-bird that  fed  the  limb  was  the  one  that 
the  judge  himself  had  seen  churning  mul- 
berries to  pulp  in  the  opening  on  the 
bough  overhead ;  but  the  'possum  that 
could  fade  out  and  disappear  had  been  met 
by  no  man  save  Rack.  And  what  a  'pos- 
sum it  was !  —  as  large  as  a  six-months- 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  I9I 

old  pig,  with  a  tail  quite  a  yard  long,  and 
a  nose  that  turned  up  almost  at  right  an- 
gles. Time  and  again  Rack  had  come 
upon  this  magnificent  animal  down  in  the 
Ulufta  bottoms,  where  the  timber  was 
thick  and  heavy ;  but  he  could  by  no  art 
known  to  the  'possum-hunter  capture  it, 
for  the  reason  that  it  invariably  faded  away 
to  nothing,  as  ghosts  are  said  to  do,  leav- 
ing only  a  faint,  wan  light  flickering  for  a 
moment  where  it  had  been. 

Somehow  when  Rack,  in  his  simple 
dialect,  related  how  for  more  than  twenty 
years  he  had  lain  in  his  lowly  bed  of  morn- 
ings listening  to  the  strange,  sweet  vibra- 
tions of  that  singing-board ;  and  how  for 
the  same  period,  during  every  year's  mul- 
berry season,  he  had  watched  the  mocking- 
bird stuff  the  fruit  into  the  hole  in  that 
limb ;  and,  more  than  all,  how  for  a  score 
of  autumns  and  winters  he  had  used  every 
means  at  command  to  capture  that  won- 
derful 'possum,  it  got  the  judge's  imagina- 


192  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

tion  aroused  and  set  his  memory  to  work. 
His  long-lost  youth  brought  up  a  host  of 
experiences  left  fifty  years  behind,  and 
among  them  hunting  the  'possum  was  per- 
haps the  raciest  and  most  barbaric.  Those 
were  the  days  when  a  persimmon  had  ex- 
quisite flavor,  and  when  muscadines  were 
better  than  any  garden-  grape.  For  a 
while  he  tasted  over  again  the  far-away 
sweets  of  boyhood;  smelt  the  keen  fra- 
grance ;  saw  the  gay  colors ;  heard  the 
ravishing  sounds ;  felt  the  thrill  of  vigor- 
ous, buoyant,  untainted  life.  Elusive,  pun- 
gent reminiscences  came  in  and  wandered 
through  his  mind  like  bees  through  an  old 
weed-grown  flower-bed. 

"Yes,  sah,  yo'  busted  up  er  powerfu' 
close  ca'c'lation  by  yo'  onreson'ble  savage- 
rousness  dis  mo'nin',  Mars'  Spivey,"  in- 
sisted Rack,  shaking  his  head  dolefully, 
and  ending  with  a  long,  deep  sigh  of  re- 
gret.    "  Yo'  onj'inted  my  'magination." 

This  touched  the  judge,  for  at  the  mo- 


A  DUSKY  GENIUS  193 

ment  he  was  fixing  one  of  those  shadowy 
half-remembrances.  Surely  it  was  so  — 
yes,  it  was  so  —  he  vaguely  recollected  — 
yes,  once,  long  years  ago,  an  opossum  had 
disappeared  mysteriously  right  before  his 
eyes.  The  animal  was  at  the  time  hang- 
ing by  its  tail  to  the  low,  full-fruited  bough 
of  a  persimmon-tree ;  he  approached  it 
with  a  club,  when,  lo !  it  faded  away  and 
was  gone.  Now  he  described  the  incident 
to  Rack,  who  received  it  with  delight,  and 
from  that  day  forward  the  two  men  dis- 
cussed at  intervals  the  possibility  of  a  mar- 
supial's having  the  power  of  self-elimina- 
tion under  great  stress  of  danger.  For 
some  time  the  negro  was  chiefly  a  listener, 
while  his  master,  seated  in  a  deep  chair  on 
the  stoop  of  the  mansion,  dilated  with 
much  show  of  learning  upon  the  isolated 
position  of  the  opossum  family  in  the  ani- 
mal kingdom.  The  judge  had  a  theory  of 
his  own,  to  the  effect  that  a  'possum  repre- 
sented humor  of  a  more  or  less  comic  sort, 


194  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

and  he  explained  to  Rack  that  it  was  the 
'possum-eating  habit  among  the  negroes  of 
the  South  which  had  given  them  their 
sense  of  barbaric  comedy  and  their  love  of 
humorous  music. 

"  It  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  'possum- 
fat,"  said  he,  "  that  has  made  such  idiots  of 
you  niggers.  It  makes  your  heads  wag, 
and  your  hands  pat,  and  your  feet  dance ; 
it  makes  you  laugh  at  everything,  and  act 
the  fool  generally.  In  short,  Rack,  'pos- 
sum-fat is  the  essential  oil  of  tomfoolery 
and  buffoonery  and  absurd  comicality." 

But  Rack  was  longing  for  a  scientific 
explanation  of  the  singing-board  and  the 
limb-feeding  mocking-bird. 

"  But  there  is  no  correlation  between 
these  simple  things  and  the  opossum  ques- 
tion,—  no  correlation  whatever.  Rack,"  the 
judge  explained. 

"  But  I  say  dey  is,"  asserted  Rack,  with 
a  vehemence  that  fairly  startled  his  mas- 
ter.    "  Dey  is  er  corroliation,  so  dey  is,  an' 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  195 

dat  jes'  w'a'  I  gwine  show  yo'  w'en  yo'  try 
ter  tab  me  up." 

"  Rack,  I  say  that  there  is  no  correlation 
whatever,"  repHed  the  judge. 

"  Dey  is  —  dey  is,  I  tell  yo',"  retorted 
Rack. 

The  judge  reached  for  his  cane,  and  the 
negro  bolted  away,  as  if  shot  from  a  war- 
wolf,  his  big  flat  feet  pounding  the  path 
with  rapid  and  resounding  strokes  until 
the  cabin  was  reached. 

Rack's  memory  was  remarkable.  He 
kept  in  mind  the  'possum  theory  advanced 
by  his  master,  and  it  grew  upon  him  day 
by  day,  apropos  of  which  he  went  about 
singing  the  old  quatrain  :  — 

"  W'en  de  ole  'possum  gwine  ter  run, 
His  hide  jes'  nat'ly  bu'st  wid  fun ; 
Ef  nigger  knock  'im  on  de  head, 
He  still  keep  grinnin'  w'en  he  dead ! " 

Many  times  the  same  question  arose  as 
to  the  possibility  of  a  correlation  between 
the  singing-board,  the   mocking-bird   that 


196  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

fed  the  mulberry  limb,  and  the  opossum 
that  could  disappear  at  will ;  but  the 
disagreement  of  master  and  slave  was,  it 
appeared,  unsurmountable.  The  judge 
finally  formulated  his  proposition  thus : 
"  There  cannot  possibly  exist  any  correla- 
tion whatever  between  a  self-eliminating 
didelphys  virginiana^  a  berry-eating  mimus 
polyglottus,  and  a  dry  fragment  of  pinus 
mitis  struck  by  the  mandibles  of  melaner- 
pes  erythrocephalusr 

Rack  was  staggered,  but  he  shook  his 
head  doggedly,  and  responded  with  exas- 
perating brevity,  "  I  say  dey  is." 

From  the  very  nature  of  things  it  came 
to  pass  that  this  problem  in  science  occu- 
pied every  moment  of  Rack's  gradually 
increasing  leisure.  To  solve  it,  and  so  tri- 
umph over  his  master,  would  be  a  crowning 
glory.  The  nebulous  beginning  of  a  solu- 
tion was,  in  fact,  forming  itself  like  a  milky 
way  across  his  mind.  The  judge  himself 
was  so  keenly  pleased  with  his  old  slave's 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  197 

mysterious  ambition  that  he  almost  wished 
him  to  succeed,  even  if  it  should  appear 
thereby  that  color  had  won  precisely  at  the 
point  where  color  always  had  been  sup- 
posed to  be  weakest.  Rack's  enthusiasm 
and  zeal  were  tempered  all  the  time  with 
such  grotesque  and  comical  humor,  and 
accompanied  with  facial  contortions  so  ex- 
pressive of  savage  wisdom,  that  a  kind  of 
infection  exhaled  therefrom  and  insinuated 
itself  into  the  judge's  imagination. 

As  time  flew  on  —  and  how  it  does  fly 
as  the  evening  of  life  draws  toward  night ! 
—  Rack,  while  growing  more  and  more 
confident  of  success,  became  very  reticent 
as  to  the  progress  of  his  investigations. 
Finally  the  judge  discovered  that  some- 
thing of  a  secret  nature  was  in  progress 
down  at  the  cabin.  He  questioned  Rack 
on  the  subject,  but  received  no  satisfaction, 
and  when  he  threatened  and  menaced  the 
old  fellow  he  was  reminded  that  a  most  in- 
opportune assault  once  before  had  delayed 
the  great  investigation. 


198  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

"  Cou'se  you  kin  jump  on  ter  me  an' 
w'ar  me  out,  Mars'  Spivey,"  said  he  dole- 
fully and  with  a  lugubrious  twist  of  his 
strong  African  face,  "  but  ef  yo'  does  it 's 
gwine  set  biorology  back  jes'  fifteen  yeahs 
an'  fo'  days  mo',  sho  's  you  's  borned.  Mars' 
Spivey,  dat  's  w'at  it 's  er-gwine  ter  do. 
Jes'  fifteen  yeahs  an'  fo'  days  mo'." 

"  But,  Rack,  what  upon  earth  is  your 
objection  to  telling  me  ? "  demanded  the 
judge,  with  querulous  and  helpless  insist- 
ence. 

Rack  looked  sidewise  at  his  master,  with 
a  suspicious  and  over-cunning  leer  in  his 
milky  old  eyes. 

"  Da'  now,  Mars'  Spivey,"  he  said,  chuc- 
kling in  a  low  falsetto,  —  "  da'  now,  yo' 
know  jes'  es  well  es  I  does  dat  it  not  gwine 
ter  do  fo'  one  scientist  ter  tell  'nodder 
scientist  any  ob  his  disciberies  afo'  he  git 
'em  fastened  solid  in  he  mind,  er  he  steal 
'em,  sho  's  yo'  borned.  Don't  yo'  ricomem- 
ber  w'en  yo'  read  ter  me  in  de  book  'bout 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  199 

seberal  'markable  ins'ances  ob  dat  sort  er 
misplaced  co'fidence  ?  Ya',  sah,  yo'  did, 
Mars'  Spivey.  Now  den,  yo'  's  er  scien- 
tist, ain't  yo'?  Well,  I  is  too,  an'  I  jes' 
know  mighty  well  what  yo'  'd  do.  Yo'  'd 
steal  my  discibery,  an'  jes'  tu'n  roun'  an' 
sw'ar  'at  it 's  yo'n !  No,  sah,  Mars'  Spivey, 
yo'  don'  come  dat  game.  I 's  not  quite  er 
eejit  yit !  " 

Rack  had  his  way,  and  the  judge  was 
both  tantalized  and  delighted,  while  the 
days  flew  by  like  birds  before  a  storm. 

Year  followed  year,  bringing  no  notable 
change  in  the  dry,  stony  mountain  land- 
scape. The  dessicative  influence  of  the 
climate  preserved  things  in  statu  quo.  At 
length  the  great  war  came  on ;  it  rolled  its 
heavy  echoes  over  the  blue  peaks  to  the 
north  and  west  of  them,  but  neither  master 
nor  slave  heeded  them  much ;  for  the  tie 
that  bound  these  two  old  men  together 
was  stronger  than  the  proclamation  of  a 
President  or  any  amendment  to  the  Amer- 


200  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

ican  Constitution.  They  became  more 
and  more  attached  to  each  other,  the  ne- 
gro in  the  latter  years  gradually  assuming 
the  stronger  part,  while  the  judge,  whose 
mind  and  body,  weakening  together,  ap- 
peared to  be  slowly  drying  up,  gave  most 
of  his  time  to  watching  the  tedious  pro- 
gress of  Rack's  investigation. 

It  was  one  fine  morning  in  December, 
1865.  The  previous  night  had  been  a 
clear,  sharp,  frosty  one,  crisping  the  late 
greenery  of  the  sturdy  mountain  oaks  and 
making  mellow  and  luscious  the  persim- 
mons of  the  Ulufta  valley.  The  judge 
was  on  his  veranda,  smoking  his  pipe  in 
the  sunshine,  and  enjoying  the  soft  color 
show  set  against  the  steep  slope  of  the 
Hog  Back,  when  Rack  shambled  up  the 
steps  and  began  dancing  on  the  floor,  his 
heavy  shoes  making  a  mighty  racket. 

"  I 's  got  ter  de  eend !  I 's  got  to  de 
eend ! "  he  sang  out.  "  I  done  'sciber  de 
corroliation  ob  de  boa'd  an'  de  mocking- 


A   DUSKY  GENIUS  201 

bird  an'  de  'possum,  an'  I  done  settle  de 
'vestigation,  Mars'  Spivey ;  ef  I  hain't  den 
de  debil  's  er  co'n  dodger !  " 

Before  the  judge  could  recover  from  the 
surprise  of  the  occasion,  Rack  changed 
the  step  of  his  dance  to  a  fluttering  and 
rattling  double-shuffle  as  an  accompani- 
ment in  counterpoint  to  the  following 
snatch  of  song :  — 

"  De  mockin'-bird  fink  it  smart  o'  him 
Wen  he  hide  he  music  in  de  limb ! 
Oh,  ya,  ya,  ya  ! 

An'  er  wha,  wha,  wha ! 
Wen  he  stuflf  he  chunes  all  in  de  limb  ! 

**  Dat  pine  boa'd  sing  till  it  wa'p  right  roun*, 
An'  ebery  day  it  ketch  mo'  soun'. 
Oh,  ya,  ya,  ya ! 

An'  er  wha,  wha,  wha  ! 
Fo'  ebery  day  it  ketch  mo'  soun' ! 

"  De  'possum  gwine  ter  shed  he  skin, 
An'  den  de  music  will  begin. 
Oh,  ya,  ya,  ya  ! 

An'  er  wha,  wha,  wha ! 
Wen  dat  ole  'possum  shed  he  skin  ! "  ' 


202  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

He  ended  with  a  high  fling  and  a  tre- 
mendous foot-stroke  on  the  resounding 
floor.  The  judge  remonstrated  and  even 
tried  the  old  worn  threats,  but  Rack  would 
not  be  controlled. 

"  I  done  cotch  onter  de  corroliation  ob 
de  biorology ! "  he  cried  exultingly,  still 
skipping  about.  "  Dat  man  Dahwin,  he 
plumb  dead-right  ebery  time  on  de  bior- 
ology an'  devolution.  It  gwine  ter  be  er 
cla'r  case  ob  nat'ral  dejection  an'  de  'vival 
ob  de  fitified !  It  gwine  ter  be  er  cla'r 
case  ob  devolution  f'om  de  gin'ral  ter  de 
spec'fication,  f'om  de  simple  ter  de  con- 
found !  Free  ob  de  simplest  an'  no'-count- 
est  gineralist  fings  in  de  worl'  gwine  ter  be 
devoluted  inter  de  one  confoundest  special- 
est  best  t'ing  'at  eber  yo'  see  in  all  yo'  bo'n 
days ! " 

Here  he  caught  the  double-shuffle  again, 
and  added  to  it  what  was  known  as  the 
chicken-peck  back-step. 

"  I  kill  dat  ole  'possum  las'  night,"  he 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  203 

added  in  a  calmer  way,  though  he  was 
panting  heavily.  "  Hi !  'fo'  Gor,  I  jes' 
knock  'im  lim'er  wid  er  light-'ood  knot,  an' 
skin  'im  afore  he  done  kickin'.  Bless  yo' 
life,  Mars'  Spivey,  but  dat  's  de  bigges' 
'possum-skin  dis  yer  chile  eber  see  in  he 
whole  bo'n  days.  Look  mos'  like  er  calf- 
hide  er-hangin'  down  dah  on  my  doo'." 

A  few  days  after  this  the  judge  was  sur- 
prised to  discover  that  Rack  had  climbed 
up  in  the  mulberry-tree  and  cut  off  the 
famous  limb  which  had  been  fed  for  so 
many  fruitful  summers  by  the  mocking- 
bird. The  resonant  board,  too,  had  been 
removed  from  the  cabin's  roof. 

Now  came  the  six  long  years  of  patient 
labor  by  which  Rack  Dillard  reached  the 
goal  of  his  soul's  ambition.  First  he  hung 
a  section  of  the  mulberry  limb,  about  three 
feet  long,  close  to  the  jamb  of  his  fireplace 
to  season,  and  then  he  began  with  a  piece 
of  glass  scraping  thinner  the  old  warped 
board.     Meantime  the  opossum's  skin  was 


204  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

lying  under  a  bed  of  hickory  ashes,  which 
sooner  or  later  would  deprive  it  of  its  hair. 

Day  after  day,  through  the  seasons  and 
the  years,  the  old  judge  found  his  chief 
pleasure  in  sitting  with  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  watching  Rack  scrape  and  file  and 
cut  and  carve  the  singing-board  and  the 
full-fed  mulberry  billet,  or  manipulate  the 
pale,  translucent  hide  of  the  opossum. 

"  I  '11  jes'  show  yo'  'bout  de  corroliation 
ob  dem  fings.  Mars'  Spivey,"  the  negro 
would  mutter,  without  lifting  his  bleared 
and  sunken  eyes.  "  Yo'  said  dey  was  n't 
no  corroliation  'tween  'em,  an'  I  said  dey 
was.  Pooty  soon  we  see  who  gwine  be 
right  'bout  dis  yer  biorology  question,  so 
we  will." 

The  singing-board  proved  to  be  a  singu- 
larly even-fibred  piece  of  pine  three  feet 
long  and  four  inches  wide  by  a  half-inch 
thick.  For  about  fifty  years  it  had  lain  in 
the  cabin  roof  absorbing  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  and  the  drying  sweetness  of  the  moun- 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  205 

tain  wind.  Slowly  its  tissue  had  been 
granulated  and  rearranged  under  the  daily, 
jarring  of  the  woodpecker's  bill,  until  now, 
after  the  scraping  and  polishing  Rack  had 
given  it,  the  wood  had  an  amber,  waxen 
appearance,  and  was  flexible  and  sonorous 
as  the  finest  tempered  steel.  But  the  mul- 
berry billet !  Never  was  there  another 
such  a  bit  of  color,  fragrance,  and  fineness. 
From  the  gnarled  little  pit,  in  which  for 
fifty  years  the  mocking-bird  had  brewed 
his  purple  wine,  the  rich  stain  of  the 
berries  had  spread  through  the  wood  in  a 
waving,  rippling  flood,  giving  it  a  royal  dye 
and  a  fruity,  musty  odor  like  the  bouquet 
of  old  wine. 

Near  the  close  of  the  six-years'  period 
mentioned  awhile  ago,  Rack,  on  the  look- 
out for  his  master's  daily  visit,  met  the 
judge  at  the  cabin  door,  and  remarked :  — 

"  'Bleeged  ter  say  ter  yo'.  Mars'  Spivey, 
'at  yo'  's  not  welcome  ter-day.  Yo'  got  no 
business  down  yer  nohow." 


206  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

The  judge  was  taken  by  surprise.  He 
leaned  on  his  staff  and  looked  quizzically 
into  the  old  negro's  face.  Rack  did  not 
relent. 

"  Yo'  's  not  gwine  inside  er  dat  cabin 
dis  day,"  he  persisted,  "  'ca'se  I 's  got  ter 
hab  de  room  all  ter  myse'f.  I 's  er-gittin' 
ter  de  corroliation  w'at  we  been  er  'sputin' 
er-bout,  an'  I  's  jes  eberlastin'ly  er-knockin' 
de  holy  stuffin'  out'n  all  yo'  ram'fications 
on  de  biorology.  So  yo'  kin  jes'  go  back, 
honey,  an'  wait  tell  I  come  fo'  yo'.  No, 
I 's  not  gwine  come  fo'  yo'  nudder ;  yo' 
jes'  come  yo'  own  se'f  nex'  Sat'd'y  night. 
Yo'  heah,  now?  Nex'  Sat'd'y  night  I 's 
gwineter  be  ready  fo'  yo'." 

The  judge  turned  about  slowly  and  re- 
luctantly; leaned  a  moment  on  his  cane; 
faltered  when  he  tried  to  say  something ; 
then  trudged  back  to  his  favorite  seat  on 
the  mansion's  stoop,  where  he  smoked  and 
dozed.  Recently  his  age  had  been  soften- 
ing his  feelings.     An  hysterical  sentimen- 


A  DUSKY   GENIUS  20/ 

tality  had  gained  upon  him.  Rack's  re- 
fusal to  confide  in  him  had  worn  upon 
him  day  by  day  for  years,  and  now  he  felt, 
however  indefinitely,  that  the  last  straw  of 
ingratitude  had  been  heaped  upon  him. 
Nevertheless  he  waited  patiently  for  Sat- 
urday evening  to  come,  with  but  the 
slightest  and  vaguest  sense  of  the  olden- 
time  arrogance  which  would  have  resented 
the  merest  suggestion  of  being  dictated  to 
by  a  negro.  This  supremacy  gained  over 
his  lifelong  master  was,  it  seems  to  me, 
the  highest  evidence  of  Rack  Dillard's 
genius. 

When  Saturday  afternoon  faded  at  last 
into  twilight,  which  in  turn  slowly  soft- 
ened into  a  moonlight  night,  the  judge 
began  to  make  some  preliminary  move- 
ments with  a  view  to  visiting  the  cabin ; 
but  he  lingered,  cane  in  hand  and  pipe  in 
mouth,  at  the  little  gate  before  his  house, 
hesitating  for  no  particular  reason.  It 
was  midsummer,  and  the  dry  softness  of 


208  A  DUSKY  GENIUS 

the  mountain  air  touched  tenderly  the 
dreaming,  dusky  leaf-masses  of  the  woods, 
and  hung  misty  veils  on  the  horizon.  He 
presently  crept  through  the  gate,  hesitat- 
ing just  outside  for  a  while,  and  gazing  up 
at  the  stars  and  the  moon.  It  was  his 
way  of  restraining  his  impatience,  and  be- 
sides he  had  not  been  quite  able  to  forgive 
Rack.  He  toddled  along  the  path,  fitfully 
pausing  here  and  there,  until  at  last  he 
turned  the  corner  of  the  rock.  At  the 
cabin  porch  he  stopped  short  and  stood  in 
a  listening  attitude,  amazed  at  first  and 
then  entranced.  The  little  house  was  full 
of  music  that  rippled  out  through  every 
opening,  and  tinkled  away  in  thin  rills 
along  the  dim  paths  of  the  woods.  The 
judge  remembered  that  in  his  young  days 
Rack  had  been  a  musician  of  no  mean 
ability;  but  for  years  he  had  had  no  in- 
strument to  play  upon.  Evidently  he  was 
now  making  up  for  lost  time ;  and  what 
music !     Was  ever  anything  else  so  bur- 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  209 

dened  with  pathos  ?  So  barbaric,  still  so 
refined  ?  So  brimming  with  virile  force, 
so  tender,  so  touching,  so  hilarious,  so 
comic,  so  sweet,  so  true  ?  The  old  judge 
felt  the  hot  tears  gush  up  into  his  eyes, 
he  knew  not  why.  It  was  as  if  the  old 
times  of  his  boyhood  had  blown  their 
sweets  back  upon  him,  with  the  laughter 
of  childhood,  the  patter  and  shufHe  of 
dancing  feet,  the  songs  of  myriad  mock- 
ing-birds, the  rustle  of  satin  leaves  and 
silken  wings,  the  bubble  and  bouquet  of 
purple  wine,  the  fragrance  and  resonance 
of  all  the  sweet,  dry,  sun-seasoned  wood 
that  ever  was  wrought  into  violin  or  harp. 
He  stood  there  crying  and  laughing,  keep- 
ing time  with  his  staff  and  wagging  his 
head,  now  slowly,  now  briskly,  as  the 
strains  varied  from  grave  to  gay. 

"  Oh,  de  peckerwood  he  head  er  red, 
Lolly,  lally,  ho !  " 

came  forth  Rack's  voice,  rich  and  strong 
despite   old  age,  singing  to   a  well-timed 


210  A   DUSKY    GENIUS 

accompaniment  and  the  pat,  pat,  pat  of  his 
shoe. 

"  Oh,  de  peckerwood  he  head  er  red. 
Lolly,  lally,  ho ! 
An'  de  mockin'-bird  he  been  stall-fed, 
Lolly,  lally,  ho ! 

"  Oh,  de  'possum  am  er  funny  t'ing, 
Lolly,  lally,  ho ! 
Wen  he  lif  'is  foot  fo'  de  pigeon-wing, 
LoUy,  lally,  ho ! 

"  De  pine  boa'd  set  my  notion  gwine, 
Lolly,  lally,  ho ! 
An'  de  mulberry  limb  it  mighty  fine, 
Lolly,  lally,  ho  !  " 

The  judge  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He 
pushed  open  the  door  and  went  in.  Rack 
looked  up  and  nodded,  but  kept  on  sing- 
ing and  playing,  emphasizing  his  notes 
more  than  ever,  if  that  were  possible. 
Judge  Dillard  began  to  dance,  and  even  to 
sing,  as  Rack  changed  the  tune :  — 

"  Oh,  lo'dy  massy,  how  d'  yo'  feel, 
Wid  de'  'possum  grease  down  in  yo'  heel, 
An'  yo'  head  all  full  o'  turnip-pie. 
An'  er  big  sweet  'tater  in  yo'  eye  ? " 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  211 

The  negro's  voice  ceased  when  the 
judge's  began,  but  the  banjo,  quickening 
the  new  air,  rang  on  in  jolly  unison.  Who 
would  have  thought  that  an  octogenarian 
could  ever  have  danced  like  that ! 

"  Wash  yo'  teef  wid  de  blackin'-brush, 
Grease  yo'  ha'r  in  er  pot  er  mush, 
Go  to  de  dance  er  Sat'd'y  night, 
Patrol  whop  yo'  'fo'  daylight ! " 

The  black  had  conquered  the  white. 
When  the  judge  sank  at  last  into  a  chair 
he  was  exhausted,  panting,  sweating,  his 
heart  beating  violently.  Rack  keyed  one 
string  up  a  trifle,  leaned  a  little  farther 
over,  and  began  to  sing  plaintively :  — 

"  Marster,  now  we  's  growin'  ole, 
De  heads  am  white,  de  feet  am  cole, 
But  de  ole,  ole  age  cayn't  do  no  harm 
W'en  de  heart,  de  heart  am  true  an'  warm. 

"  Marster,  w'en  we  drop  ter  sleep. 
In  de  grabe  so  cool  an'  deep. 
Den  we  nebber  feel  de  storm, 
Ef  our  po'  ole  hearts  is  warm." 


212  A   DUSKY    GENIUS 

They  sat  up  all  night  long,  now  singing, 
now  dancing,  anon  talking  over  old  times  on 
the  Ulufta.  Something  in  the  music  of  that 
banjo  had  an  intoxicating  effect.  Judge 
Dillard  felt  fifty  years  younger,  and  Rack 
found  it  not  in  the  least  difficult  or  tire- 
some to  play  for  an  hour  at  a  time  without 
a  moment's  rest.  The  exquisite  odor  of 
the  pine  wood  touched  the  air  in  the  room, 
and  there  was  a  distinct  flavor  of  ripe 
mulberries  straying  elusively  about. 

When  I  visited  Rack's  cabin  I  exam- 
ined with  care  and  interest  the  incompara- 
ble banjo  which  the  negro's  patient  genius 
had  built  out  of  the  "  singing-board,  the 
over-fed  mulberry  limb,  and  the  skin  of 
the  famous  Ulufta  'possum,"  as  the  thrifty 
Yankee  proprietor  describes  it.  No  one 
can  doubt  that  science  and  art  were  hap- 
pily married  in  the  making  of  that  superb 
instrument.  A  glance  shows  that  the  carv- 
ing, the  proportions  of  the  parts,  and  the 
fine   details   of   the   finishing  —  from  the 


A   DUSKY   GENIUS  2l3 

silvery,  translucent  skin  that  covers  the 
head,  to  the  rich  purple  of  the  mulberry 
neck,  and  the  gold-colored  hoop  fashioned 
out  of  the  old  warped  board  that  had  sung 
so  long  in  the  cabin  roof  —  are  exquisite 
beyond  description.  On  the  under  part 
of  the  neck  is  the  only  authentic  auto- 
graph left  by  Rack  Dillard.  It  is  a  legible 
carved  inscription  of  four  words  :  "  Dis  is 
de  corroliation." 

Rack's  grave  is  on  the  top  of  the  high 
cliff  above  his  cabin.  It  overlooks  the 
lovely  valley  of  the  Ulufta,  and  commands 
a  fine  view  of  the  Hog  Back.  To  this 
high  tomb  of  the  great  negro  originator 
of  true  dialect,  romance,  and  minstrelsy, 
have  come,  as  pilgrims  to  a  shrine,  many 
faithful  and  devoted  students  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  founder  of  their  school. 
Wreaths  of  flowers  are  laid  tenderly  on 
the  mound,  and  in  the  bold  escarpment  of 
the  rocks  are  cut  ineffaceably  some  names 
beloved  of  all  men.     Among  these,  and 


214  A   DUSKY   GENIUS 

high  in  the  Hst,  I  noticed  with  peculiar 
pleasure  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  H.  S.  Ed- 
wards, Thomas  Nelson  Page,  and  Irwin 
Russell,  —  the  names  of  men  whose  stories 
and  songs  and  sketches  have  made  known 
to  the  world  the  tender  faithful  heart, 
the  rich,  sunny  humor,  and  the  deeper 
soul  qualities  of  the  Southern  negro.  I 
hesitated  awhile ;  then,  where  no  one 
would  be  apt  to  see  it,  I  scrawled  my  own 
signature  to  testify  that  I  too  had  been 
there. 

Rack  must  have  been  a  genius,  a  high 
type  of  his  race.  As  in  the  case  of  every 
other  genius,  he  foresaid  or  forecast  the 
life  that  was  to  come  after  him,  while  at 
the  same  time  he  was  the  exponent  of  the 
past.  His  songs  and  his  banjo  strains 
left  in  the  brisk,  sweet  air  of  the  New 
South  a  lasting  reminder  of  the  old  plan- 
tation days.  The  years  he  spent  so  pa- 
tiently in  establishing  a  close  relationship 
among  his  materials,  and  which  drew  to- 


A  DUSKY   GENIUS  215 

gether  the  three  elements  of  his  art,  fun, 
pathos,  and  music,  have  served  well  the 
civilization  of  our  time,  and  have  added  a 
distinct  tint  and  a  new  flavor  to  life.  We 
owe  a  great  deal  to  Rack  Dillard.  Peace 
to  his  ashes ! 


THE    BALANCE   OF   POWER 

"  I  don't  hesitate  to  say  to  you  that  I 
regard  him  as  but  a  small  remove  in  nature 
from  absolute  trash,  Phyllis,  —  absolute 
trash.  His  character  may  be  good  — 
doubtless  it  is ;  but  he  is  not  of  good  fam- 
ily, and  he  shows  it.  What  is  he  but  a 
mountain  cracker  ?  There  is  no  middle 
ground  ;  trash  is  trash  ! " 

Colonel  Mobley  Sommerton  spoke  in  a 
rich  bass  voice,  slowly  rolling  his  words. 
The  bagging  of  his  trousers  at  the  knees 
made  his  straight  legs  appear  bent,  as  if 
for  a  jump  at  something,  while  his  daugh- 
ter Phyllis  looked  at  him  searchingly,  but 
not  in  the  least  impatiently,  her  fine  gray 
eyes  wide  open,  and  her  face,  with  its  deli- 
cately  blooming    cheeks,   its    peach-petal 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  21/ 

lips,  and  its  saucy  little  nose,  all  attention 
and  half-indignant  surprise. 

"  Of  course,"  the  colonel  went  on,  with 
a  conciliatory  touch  in  his  words,  when  he 
had  waited  some  time  for  his  daughter  to 
speak  and  she  spoke  not,  —  "  of  course 
you  do  not  care  a  straw  for  him,  Phyllis ; 
I  know  that  the  daughter  of  a  Sommerton 
could  n't  care  for  such  a  "  — 

"  I  don't  mind  saying  to  you  that  I  do 
care  for  him,  and  that  I  love  him,  and  want 
to  marry  him,"  broke  in  Phyllis,  with  trem- 
ulous vehemence,  tears  gushing  from  her 
eyes  at  the  same  time ;  and  a  depth  of 
touching  pathos  seemed  to  open  behind 
her  words,  albeit  they  rang  like  so  many 
notes  of  rank  boldness  in  the  old  man's 
ears. 

"  Phyllis ! "  he  exclaimed.  Then  he 
stooped  a  little,  his  trousers  bagging  still 
more,  and  he  stood  in  an  attitude  almost 
stagy,  a  flare  of  choleric  surprise  leaping 
into  his  face.     "  Phyllis  Sommerton,  what 


2l8  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

do  you  mean  ?  Are  you  crazy  ?  You  say 
that  to  me  ?  " 

The  girl  —  she  was  just  eighteen  — 
faced  her  father  with  a  look  at  once  tear- 
fully saucy  and  lovingly  firm.  The  sauci- 
ness,  however,  was  superficial  and  physical, 
not  in  any  degree  a  part  of  her  mental 
mood.  She  could  not,  had  she  tried,  have 
been  the  least  bit  willful  or  impertinent 
with  her  father,  who  had  always  been  a 
model  of  tenderness.  Besides,  a  girl  never 
lived  who  loved  a  parent  more  unreserv- 
edly than  Phyllis  loved  Colonel  Sommer- 
ton. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  miss !  go  to  your 
room  !  Step  lively  at  that,  and  let  me  have 
no  more  of  this  nonsense.  Go !  I  com- 
mand you ! " 

The  stamp  with  which  the  colonel's 
rather  substantial  boot  just  then  shook  the 
floor  seemed  to  generate  some  current  of 
force  sufficient  to  whirl  Phyllis  about  and 
send  her  upstairs  in  an  old-fashioned  fit  of 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  219 

hysteria.  She  v/as  crying  and  talking  and 
running  all  at  the  same  time,  her  voice 
made  liquid  like  a  bird's,  and  yet  jangling 
with  mixed  emotions.  Down  fell  her  wavy 
long  brown  hair  almost  to  her  feet,  one 
rich  strand  trailing  over  the  rail,  as  she 
mounted  the  steps,  while  the  rustling  of 
her  muslin  dress  told  off  the  springy  mo- 
tion of  her  limbs  till  she  disappeared  in 
the  gilt-papered  gloom  aloft,  where  the 
windowless  hall  turned  at  right  angles 
with  the  stairway. 

Colonel  Sommerton  was  smiling  grimly 
by  this  time,  and  his  iron-gray  moustache 
quivered  humorously. 

"  She  's  a  little  brick,"  he  muttered  ;  "  a 
chip  off  the  old  log  —  by  zounds,  she  is  ! 
She  means  business.  Got  the  bit  in  her 
teeth,  and  fairly  splitting  the  air ! "  He 
chuckled  raucously.  "  Let  her  go  :  she  '11 
soon  tire  out." 

Sommerton  Place,  a  picturesque  old 
mansion,  as  mansions  have  always  gone  in 


220  THE   BALANCE    OF    POWER 

north  Georgia,  stood  in  a  grove  of  oaks 
on  a  hilltop  overlooking  a  little  mountain 
town,  beyond  which  uprose  a  crescent  of 
blue  peaks  against  a  dreamy  summer  sky. 
Behind  the  house  a  broad  plantation  rolled 
its  billow-like  ridges  of  corn  and  cotton. 

The  colonel  went  out  on  the  veranda 
and  lit  a  cigar,  after  breaking  two  or  three 
matches  that  he  nervously  scratched  on  a 
column. 

This  was  the  first  quarrel  that  he  had 
ever  had  with  Phyllis. 

Mrs.  Sommerton  had  died  when  Phyl- 
lis was  twelve  years  old,  leaving  the  little 
girl  to  be  brought  up  in  a  boarding-school 
in  Atlanta.  The  widowed  man  did  not 
marry  again,  and  when  his  daughter  came 
home  six  months  before  the  opening  of 
our  story,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  see 
nothing  but  loveliness  in  the  fair,  bright, 
only  child  of  his  happy  wedded  life,  now 
ended  forever. 

The  reader  must  have  taken  for  granted 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  221 

that  the  person  under  discussion  in  the 
conversation  touched  upon  at  the  outset 
of  this  writing  was  a  young  man ;  but 
Tom  Banister  stood  for  more  than  the 
sum  of  the  average  young  man's  values. 
He  was  what  in  our  republic  is  recognized 
as  a  promising  fellow,  bright,  magnetic, 
shifty,  well  forward  in  the  neologies  of  so- 
ciety, business,  and  politics,  a  born  leader 
in  a  small  way,  and  as  ambitious  as  pov- 
erty and  a  brimming  self-esteem  could 
make  him.  From  his  humble  law-office 
window  he  had  seen  Phyllis  pass  along  the 
street  in  the  old  Sommerton  carriage,  and 
had  fallen  in  love  as  promptly  as  possible 
with  her  plump,  lissome  form  and  pretty 
face. 

He  sought  her  acquaintance,  avoided 
with  cleverness  a  number  of  annoying 
barriers,  assaulted  her  heart,  and  won  it, 
all  of  which  stood  as  mere  play  when  com- 
pared with  climbing  over  the  pride  and 
prejudice   of   Colonel   Sommerton.       For 


222  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

Banister  was  nobody  in  a  social  way,  as 
viewed  from  the  lofty  top  of  the  hill  at 
Sommerton  Place ;  indeed,  all  of  his  kins- 
people  were  mountaineers,  honest,  it  is 
true,  but  decidedly  woodsy,  who  tilled 
stony  acres  in  a  pocket  beyond  the  first 
blue  ridge  yonder.  His  education  seemed 
good,  but  it  had  been  snatched  from  the 
books  by  force,  with  the  savage  certainty  of 
grip  which  belongs  to  genius. 

Colonel  Sommerton,  having  unbounded 
confidence  in  Phyllis's  aristocratic  breed- 
ing, would  not  open  his  eyes  to  the  atti- 
tude of  the  young  people,  until  suddenly 
it  came  into  his  head  that  possibly  the  al- 
most briefless  plebeian  lawyer  had  ulterior 
designs  while  climbing  the  hill,  as  he  was 
doing  noticeably  often,  from  town  to  Som- 
merton Place.  But  when  this  thought 
arrived  the  colonel  was  prompt  to  act. 
He  called  up  the  subject  at  once,  and  we 
have  seen  the  close  of  his  interview  with 
Phyllis. 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  223 

Now  he  stood  on  the  veranda  and  puffed 
his  cigar  with  quick  short  draughts,  as  a 
man  does  who  falters  between  two  horns 
of  a  dilemma.  He  turned  his  head  to  one 
side,  as  if  listening  to  his  own  thoughts, 
his  tall  pointed  collar  meantime  fitting 
snugly  in  a  crease  of  his  furrowed  jaw. 

At  this  moment  the  shambling,  yet  in  a 
way  facile  footsteps  of  Barnaby,  the  spo- 
radic freedman  of  the  household,  were 
soothing.  Colonel  Sommerton  turned  his 
eyes  on  the  comer  inquiringly,  almost 
eagerly. 

"  Well,  Barn,  you  're  back,"  he  said. 

"  Yah,  sah ;  I 's  had  er  confab  wid  'em," 
remarked  the  negro,  seating  himself  on 
the  top  step  of  the  veranda,  and  mopping 
his  coal-black  face  with  a  red  cotton  hand- 
kerchief ;  "  an'  hit  do  beat  all.  Niggahs 
is  mos'ly  eejits,  w'en  yo  wants  'em  to  hab 
some  sense." 

He  was  a  huge,  ill-shapen,  muscular  fel- 
low, old  but  still  vigorous,  and  in  his  small 


224  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

black  eyes  twinkled  an  unsounded  depth 
of  shrewdness.  He  had  been  the  colonel's 
slave  from  his  young  manhood  to  the  close 
of  the  war ;  since  then  he  had  hung  around 
Ellijay  what  time  he  was  not  sponging  a 
livelihood  from  Sommerton  Place  under 
color  of  doing  various  light  turns  in  the 
vegetable  garden,  and  of  attending  to  his 
quondam  master's  horses. 

Barnaby  was  a  great  banjoist,  a  charm- 
ing song-singer,  and  a  leader  of  the  negroes 
round  about.  Lately  he  was  gaining  some 
reputation  as  a  political  boss. 

There  was  but  one  political  party  in  the 
county  (for  the  colored  people  were  so  few 
that  they  could  not  be  called  a  party), 
and  the  only  struggle  for  ofHce  came  in 
pursuit  of  a  nomination,  which  was  al- 
ways equivalent  to  election.  Candidates 
were  chosen  at  a  convention  or  mass-meet- 
ing of  the  whites,  and  the  only  figure  that 
the  blacks  were  able  to  cut  in  the  matter 
was  by  reason  of  a  pretended  rather  than 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  225 

a  real  prejudice  against  them,  which  was 
used  by  the  candidates  (who  were  always 
white  men)  to  further  their  electioneering 
schemes,  as  will  presently  appear. 

"  Hit  do  beat  all,"  Barnaby  repeated, 
shaking  his  heavy  head  reflectively,  and 
making  a  grimace  both  comical  and  hid- 
eous. "  Dat  young  man  desput  sma't  an' 
cunnin',  sho'  's  yo'  bo'n  he  is.  He  done 
been  foohn'  wid  dem  niggahs  a'ready." 

The  reader  may  as  well  be  told  at  once 
that  if  a  candidate  could  by  any  means 
make  the  negroes  support  his  opponent 
for  the  nomination  it  was  the  best  card  he 
could  possibly  play;  or  if  he  could  not 
quite  do  this,  but  make  it  appear  that  the 
other  fellow  was  not  unpopular  in  colored 
circles,  it  served  nearly  the  same  turn. 

Phyllis,  when  she  ran  crying  upstairs 
after  the  conversation  with  her  father,  went 
to  her  room,  and  fell  into  a  chair  by  the 
window.  So  it  chanced  that  she  over- 
heard  the    conference    between    Colonel 


226  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

Sommerton  and  Barnaby,  and  long  after  it 
was  ended  she  still  sat  there  leaning  on 
the  window-sill.  Her  eyes  showed  a  trifle 
of  irritation,  but  the  tears  were  all  gone. 

"  Why  did  n't  Tom  tell  me  that  he  was 
going  to  run  against  father  ? "  she  in- 
quired of  herself  over  and  over.  "  I  think 
he  might  have  trusted  me,  so  I  do.  It 's 
mean  of  him.  And  if  he  should  beat  papa  ! 
Papa  could  n't  bear  that." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  walked 
across  the  room,  stopping  on  the  way  to 
rub  her  apple-bloom  cheeks  before  a  look- 
ing-glass. Vaguely  enough,  but  insistently, 
the  outline  of  a  political  plot  glimmered 
in  her  consciousness  and  troubled  her  un- 
derstanding. Plainly,  her  father  and  Tom 
Banister  were  rival  candidates,  and  just 
as  plainly  each  was  scheming  to  make  it 
appear  that  the  negroes  were  supporting 
his  opponent ;  but  the  girl's  little  head 
could  not  gather  up  and  comprehend  all 
that   such   a   condition   of   things  meant. 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  22/ 

She  supposed  that  a  sort  of  disgrace 
would  attach  to  defeat,  and  she  clasped 
her  hands  and  poised  her  winsome  body 
melodramatically  when  she  asked  herself 
which  she  would  rather  the  defeat  would 
fall  upon,  her  father  or  Tom.  She  leaned 
out  of  the  window  and  saw  Colonel  Som- 
merton  walking  down  the  road  toward 
town,  with  his  cigar  elevated  at  an  acute 
angle  with  his  nose,  his  hat  pulled  well 
down  in  front,  by  which  she  knew  that  he 
was  still  excited. 

Days  went  by,  as  days  will  in  any  state 
of  affairs,  with  just  such  faultless  weather 
as  August  engenders  amid  the  dry,  cool 
hills  of  the  old  Cherokee  country ;  and 
Phyllis  noted,  by  an  indirect  attention  to 
what  she  had  never  before  been  interested 
in,  that  Colonel  Sommerton  was  growing 
strangely  confidential  and  familiar  with 
'Barnaby.  She  had  a  distinct  but  remote 
impression  that  her  father  had  hitherto 
never,  at  least  never  openly,  shown  such 


228  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

irenic  solicitude  in  that  direction,  and  she 
knew  that  his  sudden  peace-making  with 
the  old  negro  meant  ill  to  her  lover.  She 
pondered  the  matter  with  such  discrimina- 
tion and  logic  as  her  clever  little  brain  could 
compass ;  and  at  last  she  one  evening  called 
Barnaby  to  come  into  the  garden  with  his 
banjo. 

The  sun  was  going  down,  and  the  half- 
grown  moon  swung  yellow  and  clear 
asrainst  the  violet  arch  of  mid-heaven. 
Through  the  sheen  a  softened  outline  of 
the  town  wavered  fantastically. 

Phyllis  sat  on  a  great  fragment  of  lime- 
stone, which,  embossed  with  curious  fos- 
sils, formed  the  immovable  centre-piece  of 
the  garden. 

Barnaby,  at  a  respectful  distance,  crum- 
pled himself  satyr-like  on  the  ground,  with 
his  banjo  across  his  knee,  and  gazed  ex- 
pectantly aslant  at  the  girl's  sweet  face. 

"  Now  play  me  my  father's  favorite 
song,"  she  said. 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  229 

They  heard  Mrs.  Wren,  the  house- 
keeper, opening  the  windows  in  the  upper 
rooms  of  the  mansion  to  let  in  the  night 
air,  which  was  stirring  over  the  valley  with 
a  delicious  mountain  chill  on  its  wings. 
All  around  in  the  trees  and  shrubbery  the 
katydids  were  rasping  away  in  immelodi- 
ous  statement  and  denial  of  the  ancient 
accusation. 

Barnaby  demurred.  He  did  not  imagine, 
so  at  least  he  said,  that  Miss  Phyllis  would 
be  pleased  with  the  ballad  that  recently 
had  been  the  colonel's  chief  musical  de- 
light; but  he  must  obey  the  young  lady, 
and  so,  after  some  throat-clearing  and 
string-tuning,  he  proceeded :  — 

"  I  'd  rudder  be  er  niggah 
Dan  ter  be  er  whi'  man, 
Dough  the  whi'  man  considdah 
He  se'f  biggah  ; 
But  ef  yo'  mus'  be  white,  w'y  be  hones'  ef  yo'  can, 
An'  ac'  es  much  es  poss'ble  like  er  niggah  ! 

"  De  colah  ob  yo'  skin 

Hit  don't  constertoot  no  sin, 


230  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

An'  yo'  fambly  ain't  er- 

Cuttin'  any  figgah  ; 

Min'  w'at  yo  's  er-doin',  an'  do  de  bes'  yo'  kin, 

An'  ac'  es  much  es  poss'ble  like  er  niggah  !  " 

The  tune  of  this  song  was  melody  it- 
self, brimming  with  that  unkempt,  sarcas- 
tic humor  which  always  strikes  as  if 
obliquely,  and  with  a  flurry  of  tipsy  fun, 
into  one's  ears. 

When  the  performance  was  ended,  and 
the  final  tinkle  of  the  rollicking  banjo 
accompaniment  died  away  down  the  slope 
of  Sommerton  Hill,  Phyllis  put  her  plump 
chin  in  her  hands,  and,  with  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  looked  steadily  at  Barnaby. 

"  Barn,"  she  said,  "  is  my  father  going  to 
get  the  colored  people  to  indorse  Mr.  Tom 
Banister  ? " 

"  Yas,  ma'm,"  replied  the  old  negro ; 
and  then  he  caught  his  breath  and  checked 
himself  in  confusion.  "  Da-da-dat  is,  er  — 
I  spec' so  —  er  I  don'  'no',  ma'm,"  he  stam- 
mered.    "  'Fo'  de  Lor'  I's  "  — 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  231 

Phyllis  interrupted  him  with  an  impa- 
tient laugh,  but  said  no  more.  In  due 
time  Barnaby  sang  her  some  other  ditties, 
and  then  she  went  into  the  house.  She 
gave  the  negro  a  large  coin,  and  on  the 
veranda  steps  she  called  back  to  him, 
"  Good-night,  Uncle  Barn,"  in  a  voice  that 
made  him  shake  his  head  and  mutter :  — 

"  De  bressed  chile !     De  bressed  chile ! " 

And  yet  he  was  aware  that  she  had  out- 
witted him  and  gained  his  secret.  He 
knew  how  matters  stood  between  the 
young  lady  and  Tom  Banister,  and  there 
arose  in  his  mind  a  vivid  sense  of  the  dan- 
ger that  might  result  to  his  own  and  Colo- 
nel Sommerton's  plans  from  a  disclosure 
of  this  one  vital  detail.  Would  Phyllis 
tell  her  lover?  Barnaby  shook  his  head 
in  a  dubious  way. 

"  Gals  is  pow'ful  onsartin,  so  dey  is,"  he 
muttered.  "  Dey  tells  der  sweethearts 
mos'ly  all  what  dey  knows,  spacially  se- 
crets.    Spec'  de  ole  boss  an'  he  plan  done 


232  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

gone  up  de  chimbly  er-callyhootin'  fo' 
good." 

Then  the  old  scamp  began  to  turn  over 
in  his  brain  a  scheme  which  seemed  to 
offer  him  a  fair  way  of  approaching  Mr. 
Tom  Banister's  pocket  and  the  portemon- 
naie  of  Phyllis  as  well.  He  chuckled  atro- 
ciously as  a  pretty  comprehensive  view  of 
"  practical  politics  "  opened  itself  to  him. 

Tom  Banister  had  not  been  to  see 
Phyllis  since  her  father  had  delivered  his 
opinion  to  her  touching  the  intrinsic  mer- 
its of  that  young  man,  and  she  felt  uneasy. 

Colonel  Sommerton,  though  notably 
eccentric,  could  be  depended  upon  for  out- 
right dealing  in  general ;  still  Phyllis  had 
a  pretty  substantial  belief  that  in  politics 
success  lay  largely  on  the  side  of  the  trick- 
ster. For  many  years  the  colonel  had 
been  in  the  Legislature.  No  man  had 
been  able  to  beat  him  for  the  nomination. 
Phyllis  had  often  heard  him  tell  how  he 
laid  out  his  antagonists  by  taking  excellent 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  233 

and  popular  short  turns  on  them,  and  it 
was  plain  to  her  mind  now  that  he  was 
weaving  a  snare  for  Tom  Banister. 

She  thought  of  Tom's  running  for  office 
against  her  father  as  something  prodi- 
giously strange.  Certainly  it  was  a  bold 
and  daring  piece  of  youthful  audacity  for 
him  to  be  guilty  of.  He,  a  young  sprig  of 
the  law,  with  his  brown  moustache  not  yet 
grown,  setting  himself  up  to  beat  Colonel 
Mobley  Sommerton  !  Phyllis  blushed 
whenever  she  thought  of  it ;  but  the  colo- 
nel had  never  once  mentioned  Tom's 
candidacy  to  her. 

The  convention  was  approaching,  and 
day  by  day  signs  of  popular  interest  in  it 
increased  as  the  time  shortened.  Colonel 
Sommerton  was  preparing  a  speech  for 
the  occasion.  The  manuscript  of  it  lay 
on  the  desk  in  his  library. 

About  this  time  —  it  was  near  the  ist 
of  September,  and  the  watermelons  and 
cantaloupes  were  in  their  glory  —  the  colo- 


234  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

nel  was  called  away  to  a  distant  town  for 
a  few  days.  In  his  absence  Tom  Banis- 
ter chanced  to  visit  Sommerton  Place.  Of 
course  Phyllis  was  not  expecting  him ; 
indeed,  she  told  him  that  he  ought  not  to 
have  come;  but  Tom  thought  differently 
in  a  very  persuasive  way.  The  melons 
were  good,  the  library  delightfully  cool, 
and  conversation  caught  the  fragrance  of 
innocent  albeit  stolen  pleasure. 

Tom  Banister  was  unquestionably  a 
handsome  young  fellow,  carrying  a  hearty, 
whole-souled  expression  in  his  open,  al- 
most rosy  face.  His  large  brown  eyes, 
curly  brown  hair,  silken  young  moustache, 
and  firmly  set  mouth  and  chin  well  matched 
his  stalwart,  symmetrical  form.  He  was 
not  only  handsome,  he  was  brilliant  in  a 
way,  and  his  memory  was  something  pro- 
digious. Unquestionably  he  would  rise 
rapidly. 

"  I  am  going  to  beat  your  father  for  the 
nomination,"  he  remarked,   midmost   the 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  235 

discussion  of  their  melons,  speaking  in  a 
tone  of  absolute  confidence. 

"  Tom,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  must  n't 
do  it !  " 

"  Why.  I  'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  felt  a  sud- 
den fright.  His  eyes  fell  before  her  in- 
tense, searching  gaze. 

"  It  would  be  dreadful,"  she  presently 
managed  to  say.    "  Papa  could  n't  bear  it." 

"  It  will  ruin  me  forever  if  I  let  him  beat 
me.  I  shall  have  to  go  away  from  here." 
It  was  now  his  turn  to  become  intense. 

"  I  don't  see  what  makes  men  think  so 
much  of  office,"  she  complained  evasively. 
"  I  've  heard  papa  say  that  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  profit  in  going  to  the  Legisla- 
ture." Then,  becoming  insistent  she  ex- 
claimed, "  Withdraw,  Tom ;  please  do,  for 
my  sake ! " 

She  made  a  rudimentary  movement  as 
if  to  throw  her  arms  around  him,  but  it 
came   to   nothing.      Her  voice,   however, 


236  THE    BALANCE   OF   POWER 

carried  a  mighty  appeal  to  Tom's  heart. 
He  looked  at  her,  and  thought  how  com- 
monplace other  women  were  when  com- 
pared with  her. 

"  You  will  withdraw,  won't  you,  Tom  }  " 
she  prayed.  One  of  her  hands  touched 
his  arm.     "  Say  yes,  Tom." 

For  a  moment  his  political  ambition 
and  his  standing  with  men  appeared  to 
dissolve  into  a  mere  mist,  a  finely  com- 
minuted sentiment  of  love  ;  but  he  kept  a 
good  hold  upon  himself. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,  Phyllis,"  he  said,  in  a 
firm  voice,  which  disclosed  by  some  inde- 
scribable inflection  how  much  it  pained 
him  to  refuse.  "  My  whole  future  depends 
upon  success  in  this  race.  I  am  sorry  it 
is  your  father  I  must  beat,  but,  Phyllis,  I 
must  be  nominated.  I  can't  afford  to  sit 
down  in  your  father's  shadow.  As  sure 
as  you  live  I  am  going  to  beat  him." 

In  her  heart  she  was  proud  of  him,  and 
proud  of  this  resolution  that  not  even  she 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  237 

could  break.  From  that  moment  she  was 
between  the  millstones.  She  loved  her  fa- 
ther, it  seemed  to  her,  more  than  ever,  she 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  his  defeat. 
Indeed,  with  that  generosity  characteris- 
tic of  the  sex,  which  can  be  truly  humor- 
ous only  when  absolutely  unconscious  of 
it,  she  wanted  both  Tom  and  the  colonel 
nominated,  and  both  elected.  She  was 
the  partisan  on  Tom's  side,  the  adherent 
on  her  father's. 

Colonel  Sommerton  returned  on  the 
day  before  the  convention,  and  found  his 
friends  enthusiastic,  all  his  "  fences "  in 
good  condition,  and  his  nomination  evi- 
dently certain.  It  followed  that  he  was  in 
high  good-humor.  He  hugged  Phyllis, 
and  casually  brought  up  the  thought  of 
how  pleasantly  they  could  spend  the  win- 
ter in  Atlanta  when  the  Legislature  met. 

"But  Tom  —  I  mean  Mr.  Banister  — 
is  going  to  beat  you,  and  get  the  nomina- 
tion," she  archly  remarked. 


238  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

"  If  he  does,  I  '11  deed  you  Sommerton 
Place  !  "  As  he  spoke  he  glared  at  her  as 
a  lion  might  glare  at  thought  of  being  de- 
feated by  a  cub. 

"  To  him  and  me  ?  "  she  inquired,  with 
sudden  eagerness  of  tone.     "  If  he  "  — 

"  Phyllis !  "  he  interrupted  savagely,  "  no 
joking  on  that  subject.     I  won't "  — 

"  No ;  I  'm  serious,"  she  sweetly  said. 
"  If  he  can't  beat  you,  I  don't  want  him." 

"  Zounds  !  Is  that  a  bargain  ?  "  He 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  bent 
down  so  that  his  eyes  were  on  a  level  with 
hers. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  I  '11  hold  you 
to  it." 

"  You  promise  me? "  he  insisted. 

"  A  man  must  go  ahead  of  my  papa," 
she  said,  putting  her  arms  about  the  old 
gentleman's  neck,  "  or  I  '11  stay  by  papa." 

He  kissed  her  with  atrocious  violence. 
Even  the  knee-sag  of  his  trousers  sug- 
gested more  than  ordinary  vigor  of  feeling. 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  239 

"  Well,  it 's  good-by  Tom,"  he  said, 
pushing  her  away  from  him,  and  letting 
go  a  profound  bass  laugh.  "  I  '11  settle 
him  to-morrow." 

"  You  '11  see,"  she  rejoined.  "  He  may 
not  be  so  easy  to  settle." 

He  gave  her  a  savage  but  friendly  cuff 
as  they  parted. 

That  evening  old  Barnaby  brought  his 
banjo  around  to  the  veranda.  Colonel 
Sommerton  was  down  in  town  mixing 
with  the  "boys,"  and  doing  up  his  final 
political  chores  so  that  there  might  be  no 
slip  on  the  morrow.  It  was  near  eleven 
o'clock  when  he  came  up  the  hill,  and 
stopped  at  the  gate  to  hear  the  song  that 
Barnaby  was  singing.  He  supposed  that 
the  old  negro  was  all  alone.  Certainly  the 
captivating  voice,  with  its  unkempt  mel- 
ody, and  its  throbbing,  skipping,  harum- 
scarum  banjo  accompaniment,  was  all  that 
broke  the  silence  of  the  place. 

His  song  was  :  — 


240  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

DE    SASSAFRAS    BLOOM. 

"  Dey  's  sugah  in  de  win'  when  de  sassafras  bloom, 
When  de  little  co'n  fluttah  in  de  row, 
When  de  robin  in  de  tree,  like  er  young  gal  in  de  loom, 
Sing  sweet,  sing  sof,  sing  low. 

*'  Oh,  de  sassafras  blossom  hab  de  keen  smell  o'  de  root, 
An'  it  hab  sich  er  tender  yaller  green  ! 
De  co'n  hit  kinder  twinkle  when  hit  firs'  begin  ter  shoot. 
While  de  bum'lebee  hit  bum'les  in  between. 

"  Oh,  de  sassafras  tassel,  an'  de  young  shoot  o'  de  co'n, 
An'  de  young  gal  er-singing  in  de  loom, 
Dey 's  somefin'  'licious  in  'em  f 'om  de  day  'at  dey  is 
bo'n. 
An'  dis  darkey  's  sort  o'  took  er  likin'  to  'm. 

"Hit's  kind  o'  sort  o'  glor'us  when  yo'  feels  so  quare 
an'  cur'us, 
An'  yo'  don'  know  what  it  is  yo'  wants  ter  do  ; 
But  I  takes  de  chances  on  it  'at  hit  jes'  can't  be  injur'us 
When  de  whole  endurin'  natur  tells  yo'  to  ! 

*'  Den  wake  up,  niggah,  see  de  sassafras  in  bloom ! 
Lis'n  how  de  sleepy  wedder  blow ! 
An'  de  robin  in  de  haw-bush  an'  de  young  gal  in  de 
loom 
Is  er-singin'  so  sof  an'  low." 


THE  BALANCE   OF   POWER  241 

"  Thank  you,  Barn ;  here  's  your  dollar," 
said  the  voice  of  Tom  Banister  when  the 
song  was  ended.     "You  may  go  now." 

And  while  Colonel  Sommerton  stood 
amazed,  the  young  man  came  down  the 
veranda  steps  with  Phyllis  on  his  arm. 
They  stopped  when  they  reached  the 
ground. 

"Good -night,  dear.  I  '11  win  you  to- 
morrow or  my  name  is  not  Tom  Banis- 
ter. I  '11  win  you,  and  Sommerton  Place 
too."  And  when  they  parted  he  came 
right  down  the  walk  between  the  trees,  to 
run  almost  against  Colonel  Sommerton. 

"Why,  good-evening,  colonel,"  he  said, 
with  a  cordial,  liberal  spirit  in  his  voice. 
"  I  have  been  waiting  in  hopes  of  seeing 
you." 

"  You  '11  get  enough  of  me  to-morrow 
to  last  you  a  lifetime,  sah,"  promptly  re- 
sponded the  old  man,  marching  straight 
on  into  the  house.  Nothing  could  express 
more   concentrated,    and   yet   comprehen- 


242  THE    BALANCE   OF    POWER 

sive  contempt  than  Colonel  Sommerton's 
manner. 

"  The  impudent  young  scamp,"  he 
growled.     "  I  '11  show  him  !  " 

Phyllis  sprang  from  ambush  behind  a 
vine,  and  covered  her  father's  face  with 
warm  kisses,  then  broke  away  before  he 
could  say  a  word,  and  ran  up  to  her  room. 

In  the  distant  kitchen,  Barnaby  was 
singing:  — 

"  Kicked  so  high  I  broke  my  neck, 

An'  fling  my  right  foot  off'm  my  leg  ; 
Went  to  work  mos'  awful  quick, 
An'  mended  'em  wid  er  wooden  peg." 

Next  morning,  at  nine  o'clock  sharp,  the 
convention  was  called  to  order,  General 
John  Tolliver  in  the  chair.  Speeches  were 
expected,  and  it  had  been  arranged  that 
Tom  Banister  should  first  appear.  Colonel 
Sommerton  would  follow,  and  then  the  bal- 
lot would  be  taken. 

This  order  of  business  showed  the  fine 
tactics  of  the  colonel,  who  well  understood 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  243 

how  much  advantage  lay  in  the  vivid  im= 
pression  of  a  closing  speech. 

As  the  two  candidates  made  their  way 
from  opposite  directions  through  the 
throng  to  the  platform,  which  was  under  a 
tree  in  a  beautiful  suburban  grove,  both 
were  greeted  with  effusive  warmth  by  ad= 
miring  constituents.  Many  women  were 
present,  and  Tom  Banister  felt  the  blood 
surge  mightily  through  his  veins  at  sight 
of  Phyllis  standing  tall  and  beautiful  be= 
fore  him  with  her  hand  extended. 

"  If  you  lose,  die  game,  Tom,"  she  mur- 
mured, as  he  pressed  her  fingers  and 
passed  on. 

The  young  man's  appearance  on  the 
stand  called  forth  a  tremendous  roar  of 
applause.  Certainly  he  was  popular. 
Colonel  Sommerton  felt  a  queer  shock  of 
surprise  thrill  along  his  nerves.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  he  would  lose  ?  No  ;  the 
thought  was  intolerable.  He  sat  a  trifle 
straighter  on  his  bench,  and  began  gather- 


244  THE  BALANCE   OF   POWER 

ing  the  points  of  his  well-conned  speech. 
He  saw  old  Barnaby  moving  around  the 
rim  of  the  crowd,  apparently  looking  for  a 
seat. 

Meantime  Tom  was  proceeding  in  a 
clear,  soft,  far-reaching  voice.  The  colonel 
started  and  looked  askance.  What  did  it 
mean  ?  At  first  his  brain  was  confused, 
but  presently  he  understood.  Word  for 
word,  sentence  for  sentence,  paragraph  for 
paragraph,  Tom  was  delivering  the  colo- 
nel's own  sonorous  speech !  Of  course 
the  application  was  reversed  here  and 
there,  so  that  the  wit,  the  humor,  and  the 
personal  thrusts  all  went  home.  It  was  a 
wonderful  piece  of  ad  captandum  oratory. 
The  crowd  went  wild  from  start  to  finish. 

Colonel  Mobley  Sommerton  sat  dazed 
and  stupefied,  mopping  his  forehead  and 
trying  to  collect  his  faculties.  He  felt 
beaten,  annihilated,  while  Tom  soared  su- 
perbly on  the  wings  of  Sommertonian  ora- 
tory so  mysteriously  at  his  command. 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  245 

From  a  most  eligible  point  of  view  Phyl- 
lis was  gazing  at  Tom,  and  receiving  the 
full  brilliant  current  of  his  speech,  and  she 
appeared  to  catch  a  fine  stimulus  from  the 
flow  of  its  opening  sentences.  As  it  pro- 
ceeded her  face  alternately  flushed  and 
paled,  and  her  heart  pounded  heavily.  All 
around  rose  the  tumult  of  unbridled  ap- 
plause. Men  flung  up  their  hats  and 
yelled  themselves  hoarse.  A  speech  of 
that  sort  from  a  young  fellow  like  Tom 
Banister  was  something  to  create  irre- 
pressible enthusiasm.  It  ended  in  such  a 
din  that  when  General  John  Duff  Tolliver 
arose  to  introduce  Colonel  Sommerton  he 
had  to  wait  for  some  time  to  be  heard. 

The  situation  was  one  that  absolutely 
appalled,  though  it  did  not  quite  paralyze, 
the  old  candidate,  who,  even  after  he  had 
gained  his  feet  and  stalked  to  the  front  of 
the  rude  rostrum,  was  as  empty  of  thought 
as  he  was  full  of  despair.  This  sudden 
and  unexpected  appropriation  of  his  great 


246  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

speech  had  sapped  and  stupefied  his  intel- 
lect. He  slowly  swept  the  crowd  with  his 
dazed  eyes,  and  by  some  accident  the  only 
countenance  clearly  visible  to  him  was  that 
of  old  Barnaby,  who  now  sat  far  back  on 
a  stump,  looking  for  all  the  world  like 
a  mightily  mystified  baboon.  The  negro 
winked  and  grimaced,  and  scratched  his 
flat  nose  in  sheer  vacant  stupidity.  Colonel 
Sommerton  saw  this,  and  it  added  an  en- 
feebling increment  to  his  mental  torpor. 

"  Fellow-citizens,"  he  presently  roared,  in 
his  melodious  bass  voice,  "  I  am  proud  of 
this  honor."  He  was  not  sure  of  another 
word  as  he  stood  with  bagging  trousers 
and  sweat-beaded  face,  but  he  made  a  su- 
perhuman effort  to  call  up  his  comatose 
wits.  "  I  should  be  ungrateful  were  I  not 
proud  of  this  great  demonstration."  Just 
then  his  gaze  fell  upon  the  face  of  his 
daughter.  Their  eyes  met  with  a  mutual 
flash  of  retrospection.  They  were  remem- 
bering the  bargain.     The  colonel  was  not 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  247 

aware  of  it,  but  the  deliberateness  and  vocal 
volume  of  his  opening  phrases  made  them 
very  impressive.  "  I  assure  you,"  he  went 
on,  fumbling  for  something  to  say,  "  that 
my  heart  is  brimming  with  gratitude,  so 
that  my  lips  find  it  hard  to  utter  the  words 
that  crowd  into  my  mind."  At  this  some 
kindly  friend  in  the  audience  gingerly  set 
going  a  ripple  of  applause,  which,  though 
evidently  forced,  was  like  wine  to  the  old 
man's  intellect ;  it  flung  a  glow  through  his 
imagination. 

"  The  speech  you  have  heard  the  youth- 
ful limb  of  the  law  declaim  is  a  very  good 
one,  a  very  eloquent  one  indeed.  If  it  were 
his  own  I  should  not  hesitate  to  say  right 
here  that  I  ought  to  stand  aside  and  let 
him  be  nominated;  but,  fellow-citizens,  that 
speech  belongs  to  another  and  far  more 
distinguished  and  eligible  man  than  Tom 
Banister."  Here  he  paused  again,  and 
stood  silent  for  a  moment.  Then,  lifting 
his  voice  to  a  clarion  pitch,  he  added :  — 


248  THE   BALANCE    OF   POWER 

"  Fellow-citizens,  I  wrote  that  speech, 
intending  to  deliver  it  here  to-day.  I  was 
called  to  Canton  on  business  early  in  the 
week,  and  during  my  absence  Tom  Banis- 
ter went  to  my  house  and  got  my  manu- 
script and  learned  it  by  heart.  To  prove 
to  you  that  what  I  say  is  true,  I  will  now 
read." 

At  this  point  the  colonel,  after  deliber- 
ately wiping  his  glasses,  drew  from  his 
capacious  coat-pocket  the  manuscript  of 
his  address,  and  proceeded  to  read  it  word 
for  word,  just  as  Banister  had  declaimed 
it.  The  audience  listened  in  silence^  quite 
unable  to  comprehend  the  situation.  There 
was  no  applause.  Evidently  sentiment  was 
dormant,  or  it  was  still  with  Tom.  Colonel 
Sommerton,  feeling  the  desperation  of  the 
moment,  reached  forth  at  random,  and  see- 
ing Barnaby's  old  black  face,  it  amused  him, 
and  he  chanced  to  grab  a  thought  as  if  out 
of  the  expression  he  saw  there. 

"  Fellow-citizens,"   he   added,   "  there  is 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  249 

one  thing  I  desire  to  say  upon  this  impor- 
tant occasion.  Whatever  you  do,  be  sure 
not  to  nominate  to-day  a  man  who  would, 
if  elected,  ally  himself  with  the  niggers.  I 
don't  pretend  to  hint  that  my  young  oppo- 
nent, Tom  Banister,  would  favor  nigger 
rule,  but  I  do  say  —  do  you  hear  me,  fellow- 
citizens  ? —  I  do  say  that  every  nigger  in 
this  country  is  a  Banister  man !  How  do 
I  know  ?  I  will  tell  you.  Last  Saturday 
night  the  niggers  had  a  meeting  in  an  old 
stable  on  my  premises.  Wishing  to  know 
what  they  were  up  to,  I  stole  slyly  to  where 
I  could  overhear  their  proceedings.  My 
old  nigger,  Barnaby,  —  yonder  he  sits,  and 
he  can't  deny  it,  —  was  presiding,  and  the 
question  before  the  meeting  was,  '  Which 
of  the  two  candidates,  Tom  Banister  and 
Colonel  Sommerton,  shall  we  niggers  sup- 
port ? '  On  this  question  there  was  some 
debate  and  difference  of  opinion,  until  old 
Bob  Warmus  arose  and  said, '  Mistah  Pres'- 
dent,  dey  's  no  use  er-talkin' ;  I  likes  Colo- 


250  THE    BALANCE    OF    POWER 

nel  Sommerton  mighty  well ;  he  's  a  berry 
good  man  ;  dey  's  not  a  bit  er  niggah  in  'im. 
On  t'  Oder  han',  Mistah  Pres'dent,  Mistah 
Tom  Banistah  is  er  white  man  too,  jes'  de 
same ;  but  I  kin  say  fo'  Mistah  Banistah  'at 
he  's  mo'  like  er  niggah  'an  any  white  man 
'at  I  ebber  seed  afore ! '  "  . 

Here  the  colonel  paused  to  wait  for  the 
shouting  and  the  hat-throwing  to  subside. 
Meantime  the  face  of  old  Barnaby  was 
drawn  into  one  indescribable  pucker  of 
amazement.  He  could  not  believe  his 
eyes  or  his  ears.  Surely  that  was  not  Colo- 
nel Sommerton  standing  up  there  telling 
such  an  enormous  falsehood  on  him  !  He 
shook  his  woolly  head  dolefully  and  gnawed 
a  little  splinter  that  he  had  plucked  from  a 
stump. 

"  Of  course,  fellow-citizens,"  the  Colonel 
went  on,  "  that  settled  the  matter,  and  the 
niggers  indorsed  Tom  Banister  unani- 
mously by  a  rising  vote !  " 

The  yell  that  went  up  when  the  speaker, 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  25 1 

bowing  profoundly,  took  his  seat,  made  it 
seem  certain  that  Banister  would  be 
beaten ;  but  when  the  ballot  was  taken  it 
was  found  that  he  had  been  chosen  by  one 
vote  majority. 

Colonel  Mobley  Sommerton'sface  turned 
as  white  as  his  hair.  The  iron  of  defeat 
went  home  to  his  proud  heart  with  terrible 
effect,  and  as  he  tried  to  rise  the  features  of 
the  hundreds  of  countenances  below  him 
swam  and  blended  confusedly  on  his  vision. 
The  sedentary  bubbles  on  the  knees  of  his 
trousers  fluttered  with  sympathetic  vio- 
lence. 

Tom  Banister  was  on  his  feet  in  a  mo- 
ment. It  was  an  appealing  look  from  Phyl- 
lis that  inspired  him,  and  once  more  his 
genial  voice  rang  out  clear  and  strong. 

"  Fellow-citizens,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  mo- 
tion to  make.  Hear  me."  He  waved  his 
right  hand  to  command  silence,  then  pro- 
ceeded :  "  Mr.  President,  I  withdraw  my 
name  from  this  convention,  and  move  that 


252  THE   BALANCE   OF    POWER 

the  nomination  of  Colonel  Mobley  Som- 
merton  be  made  unanimous  by  acclamation. 
I  have  no  right  to  this  nomination,  and  no- 
thing, save  a  matter  greater  than  life  or 
death  to  me,  could  have  induced  me  to  steal 
it  as  I  this  day  have  done.  Colonel  Som- 
merton  knows  why  I  did  it.  He  gave  his 
word  of  honor  that  he  would  cease  all  ob- 
jections to  giving  his  daughter  to  me  in 
marriage,  and  that  furthermore  he  would 
deed  Sommerton  Place  to  us  as  a  wedding- 
present,  if  I  beat  him  for  the  nomination. 
Mr,  President  and  fellow-citizens,  do  you 
blame  me  for  memorizing  his  speech  ? 
That  magnificent  speech  meant  to  me  the 
most  beautiful  wife  in  America,  and  the 
handsomest  estate  in  this  noble  county." 

If  Tom  Banister  had  been  boisterously 
applauded  before  this,  it  was  as  nothing  be- 
side the  noise  which  followed  when  Colonel 
Sommerton  was  declared  the  unanimous 
nominee  of  the  convention.  Meantime 
Phyllis    had  hurried   to  the  carriage  and 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  253 

been  driven  home :  she  dared  not  stay  and 
let  the  crowd  gaze  at  her  after  that  bold 
confession  of  Tom's. 

The  cheering  for  the  nominee  was  yet  at 
its  flood  when  Banister  leaped  at  Colonel 
Sommerton  and  grasped  his  hand.  The 
old  gentleman  was  flushed  and  smiling,  as 
became  a  politician  so  wonderfully  favored. 
It  was  a  moment  never  to  be  forgotten  by 
either  of  the  men. 

"  I  cordially  congratulate  you,  Colonel 
Sommerton,  on  your  nomination,"  said  Tom, 
with  great  feeling,  "  and  you  may  count  on 
my  hearty  support." 

"  If  I  don't  have  to  support  you,  and  pay 
your  office  rent  in  the  bargain,  all  the  rest 
of  my  life,  I  miss  my  guess,  you  young 
scamp !  "  growled  the  colonel,  in  a  major 
key.     "  Be  off  with  you !  " 

Tom  moved  away  to  let  the  colonel's 
friends  crowd  up  and  shake  hands  with 
him ;  but  the  delighted  youth  could  not 
withhold  a  Parthian  shaft.    As  he  retreated 


254  THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER 

he  said  :  "  Oh,  Colonel  Sommerton,  don't 
bother  about  my  support;  Sommerton 
Plantation  will  be  ample  for  that ! " 

"  Hit  do  beat  all  thunder  how  dese  white 
men  syfoogles  eroun'  in  politics,"  old  Bar- 
naby  thought  to  himself.  Then  he  rattled 
the  coins  in  his  two  pockets.  The  contri- 
butions of  Colonel  Sommerton  chinked  on 
the  left,  those  of  Tom  Banister  and  Phyllis 
rang  on  the  right. 

"  Blame  this  here  ole  chile's  eyes,"  he 
went  on,  "  but  't  war  a  close  shabe !  Seem 
lak  I 's  kinder  holdin'  de  balernce  ob  power. 
I  use  my  infloonce  fer  bofe  ob  'em  —  yah, 
yah,  yah-r-r !  an'  hit  did  look  lak  I  's  gwin 
ter  balernce  fings  up  tell  I  'lee'  'em  bofe  ter 
oncet  right  dar !  Bofe  ob  'em  got  de  nom- 
ernation  —  yah,  yah,  yah-r-r !  But  I  say 
'rah  fo'  little  Miss  Phyllis  !  She  de  one  'at 
know  how  to  pull  de  right  string  —  yah, 
yah,  yah-r-r ! " 

The  wedding  at  Sommerton  Place  came 
on  the  Wednesday  following  the  fall  elec- 


THE   BALANCE   OF   POWER  255 

tion.  Besides  the  great  number  of  guests 
and  the  striking  beauty  of  the  bride,  there- 
was  nothing  notable  in  it,  unless  the  song 
prepared  by  Barnaby  for  the  occasion,  and 
sung  by  him  thereupon  to  a  captivating 
banjo  accompaniment,  may  be  so  distin- 
guished. A  stanza,  the  final  one  of  that 
masterpiece,  has  been  preserved.  It  may 
serve  as  an  informal  ending,  a  charcoal  tail- 
piece, to  our  light  but  truthful  little  story. 

"  Stan'  by  yo'  frien's  and  nebber  mek  trouble, 
An'  so,  e£  yo  's  got  any  sense, 
Yo  '11  know  hit 's  a  good  t'ing  ter  be  sorter  double, 
An'  walk  on  bofe  sides  ob  de  fence  ! " 


CAMBRIDGE.  MASSACHUSETTS,  U.  S.  A. 

KLKCTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  CO. 


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COLLECTION 


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